


Sunshade, Nightlight

by Noscere



Series: Nested Gold [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Customer Service & Tech Support, Depression, F/F, F/M, Finding love in hard places, Five Stages of Grief, Gangsters, Gratuitous violence against Grimm, M/M, More characters to come, Multi, Remnant equivalent of Russian Mafia, Remnant equivalent of cartels, V3EP12 Spoilers, White Fang, Will get explicit in chapters to come, good parents, hello darkness my old friend, parental substitutes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noscere/pseuds/Noscere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a girl with so much love in her heart that it hurts to keep it all in. </p><p>(Add in mommy issues, abandonment issues, and a recent loss of limb, and you've got a girl who really needs a goddamn hug.)</p><p>Yang only hopes that one day, she'll find someone who will stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Club

**Author's Note:**

> Goldilocks walks into the club, owned by Junior Bear. Only good things can come of this.

Yang strolls past the civilians who shoot her questioning glances and whisper behind their hands. It’s been a long time since she last walked the streets of Vale. Gone are the decorations for the Vytal Festival. There are tattered banners draped across the streetlights, shrouds for the good memories they once had in the streets. Splatters of blood still paint the pavement.

She wishes she could still ride her beloved bike. Unfortunately, Bumblebee is still at Beacon, and she’d have to fight past the Grimm to get it. Ah well. It’s only a bike, after all.

The brawler knows this route well: from the shuttleport, it’s three blocks down and two to the left. From Dust to Dawn, it’s six blocks away. If she starts at the Noodle Emporium, it’s three. She passed by its shuttered front, and remembers there was a time when ordinary citizens didn't carry guns and lingered in the streets long after the moon rose. After heading to the bar, they’d hit up the Emporium at 3 AM to get some noodles. Good noodles. Blake liked them.

Yang shoves the thought from her head. Blake is just another name on her list of unpersons. She doesn't exist in this new world, except in the dead of night, when Yang's left alone with her thoughts.

She ducks into the alleyway, next to the two dumpsters with a cutesy bear spray-painted onto their faces. It’s harder to tap in the code with her left hand, but she manages. She is handicapped, not dead.

The doors slide open.

A loud synthetic beat pulses over the abandoned dance floor. There are men in black suits patrolling its outskirts, looking morose or bored. When she walks forward, they perk up like dogs welcoming their master.

“Back for a fight, Blondie?” the DJ yells.

The twins appear, baring their weapons.

“She’s back, Melanie says. Her cyan heels click against the floor, tapping to the beat of the electric drums. “I told you, Militia! Ready for round two?”

“Oh yes, sister. But isn’t something wrong with her arm?”

“Can you guys back off?” Yang reaches into her shorts and pulls out a wad of lien. “All I want is a drink.”

“But we’re so bored, Blondie,” they nearly whine in unison.

“Nobody wants to dance during an invasion,” Militia adds, picking at her claws.

“Please, we saw you in the tournament. We haven’t had a good fight in _ages,_ ” Melanie says. She gets to her knees and curtsies. “It would be an _honor_ , Blondie.”

“Yeah, well, this cripple doesn’t want to fight during this invasion.” She pushes past them, past the henchmen who cringe away from her as if they expect her to suddenly lash out, and heads straight for the bar where a bulky man is polishing a set of shot glasses.

 

“Hey, Blondie.” Junior sets down his towel and reaches for a bat. “Missed seeing you around here. You ready to go?”

“As if. I want a drink.”

Junior laughs. “Strawberry sunrise, with a little umbrella on top? If I don’t give it to you, will you blow up my club again?”

“I’ll take whatever’s hardest,” she says.

Junior’s eyes narrow. He leans across the bar, black eyes focused on her lilac ones.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t throw you out of this joint.”

A long time ago, she might have pulled him in by the tie and told him he owed her. That Yang is gone. She died with Pyrrha and Penny, wasted away when Beacon fell to the Grimm, fled with Blake to Dust knows where… all that remains of that Yang is Ember Celica’s gauntlet on her left arm.

In response, Yang slams a 100 lien chip onto the counter.

“I can’t get a goddamn arm. My team is broken. I’ve got a thousand lien left in my savings before I starve to death or shoot myself. Everyone I know is dead, injured, or missing. Get me fucking drunk.”

Junior looks her over. She thinks she sees a shred of sympathy behind those dumb grey eyes, like a bear looking at a struggling cub.

“Gauntlet off first.”

“Do you know how much of a pain it was to put this on?”

Junior clicks his tongue. “Don’t want to see if you’re an angry drunk, Blondie.”

“Fine.” Yang jams her arm between her body and the bar counter, then twists. Ember Celica slides off her forearm. It’ll be hell to put on again. “Are you happy now? Or do I have to cut off my other fucking arm?”

“All right, but don’t go causing trouble for me.” He swipes the 100 lien chip and heads to the register. He comes back with four 20 lien chips and three fives, which he deposits by her remaining arm.

Yang watches him move, now in his element as a club owner. He selects a brown bottle of something that boasts _BAILEYS_ on the label and pours a shotglass worth. A few limes sit by the sink. He pulls out a knife and slices one in half, juicing it over the rim of another shotglass.

“You hold this one in your mouth,” Junior says, bringing the Baileys over first. The minute it touches her hand, Yang tosses it back. “Then you drink this.” He sets the lime juice on the counter, watching her intently.

The lime juice chases after the Baileys.

Yang nearly gags. Something sticky and tar-like is forming in her mouth – is this what it feels like to have a Grimm on her tongue? She swallows quickly and tries to open her mouth, but the tar glues her jaws shut. Yang looses a burst of Aura to melt the concoction away.

She closes her eyes as the alcohol kicks in. The bar feels warmer already.

“Another, she says.

“Not gonna fight me for giving you that?” Junior asks.

“Only if you don’t get me fucking wasted.” She runs her tongue along the rims of her teeth. “What was that?”

“Cement mixer. Lime curdles the cream in the Baileys. Wanted to see if you were for real.”

Yang waves her stub of an arm. “Hey, look, the cripple’s in town. She’s totally real. Another.”

 

Junior disappears for a while. When he returns, he brings a Strawberry Sunrise, fresh berries rimming the top of the highball.

“You’re my first customer in a while,” he says. “You’re staying around town?”

Yang snorts. “That won’t get me drunk.”

“Pace yourself, Blondie,” he says. Is that a hint of kindness in his tone?

“Why do you care?”

“Business is bad these days.” Junior shrugs, but she can see the years weighing down on his brow. “I lose my customers, I don’t have a job. These guys’ll all lose their jobs as well. Then the Grimm’ll come and infest this place, and where will we be then?”

“Dead. Armless, maybe. Or you’ll all run away into the sewer.”

“Charming,” Melanie says, sliding up to her. “She’s so boring. Can I have that instead, Junior?”

Junior hands her the red-orange drink. The other girl walks off, hips swaying as she goes.

“How’s your team?”

“Gone, I told you, now just give me a fucking drink.”

Junior pulls out a bottle of gin from the rack. “If you say so, Blondie.”

 

The night grows old, and the pile of glasses around Yang grows. Junior occasionally plies her with questions, but the drunker she gets, the quieter she becomes. He brings her chips, glasses of water and the occasional slice of fruit after she’s had a particularly hard glass. The pile of lien by Yang’s side slowly dwindles.

(If she paid more attention, she would notice that Junior is giving her drinks for nearly free, and the food itself is free.)

 

At last, the club’s closing time has come around. The henchmen are heading home. Melanie and Militia are roaming the club as night shift.

Junior looks at the drunken puddle on his counter.

“Naptime, blondie,” he says. “This isn’t your place.”

She doesn’t reply.

“You… don’t have a place now that Beacon’s gone, do you.”

“Over in fucking Patch,” she says. “No matter. I’ve done my time in the streets.”

He sighs.

“Look. I’ll let you stay if you make a deal with me.”

“I’ve made enough deals with the devil,” Yang mumbles. She raises a bleary head. The world spins around her, but only for a second, before Aura pumps through her system and flushes the alcohol out. “What do you want?”

“What happened at Beacon?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It’s in my business, Goldie, to know.” He crooks a finger and points at the door. “But if you wanna take your chances out there, be my guest.”

Yang sighs.

“The White Fang attacked. There was this stupidly powerful woman who wrecked our shit. Bullshit happened. Ironwood’s bots started attacking us. Something happened, and then they started helping us again.This giant-ass dragon started flying around the tower. There was a huge flash of light, and its stupid ass got frozen.  A lot of people were killed. They decided it was too dangerous and evacced us out.” She rolls Ember Celica across the bar counter and starts stuffing her arm inside. “Anything else?”

“You mentioned the White Fang.” Junior leans in, studying her face. “Was Roman Torchwick there?”

“Hell if I know.” Yang slams her fist into the counter. “Look, I just don’t know. This maniac with a bone-mask decided to stab my partner, and when I went to fight him, he cut off my fucking arm. Now everything – everyone! – I love is dead or missing.” Yang slumps into the counter. “I never wanted this, Junior.”

He’s silent.

“Is that why you keep rebuilding this club, even though I keep on fucking things up?” she asks. Alcohol has loosed her tongue, but it has no more influence on her. “It’s home. You can run from your dirty business on the side here. It’s somewhere you call safe at the end of the day, even after all the bullshit I pull.”

Junior goes to the sink, and fills a glass of water.

“Drink,” he says, as her eyes flutter closed, “you’ll feel better.”

By the time the glass is in her remaining hand, Yang is already passed out, chest heaving in easy breaths.


	2. Night: A Heart Full of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sodden in alcohol, Yang dreams of better times.

 Yang was eight when she first fell in love.

Said love did not appreciate the kiss Yang tried to plant on her cheek.

 

“Why didn’t she love me, dad?” Yang asked as her father swabbed the broken skin with a peroxide-laden cotton ball. “Oww!”

“Sometimes, the people we love don’t love us back,” he said, his face uncharacteristically sad. “It’s okay, Yang. You will always meet people you love who don’t feel the same way for you.”

“But I love her so much!”

“I know, sunshine, I know. You’ve got a heart full of love, but sometimes people don’t want love, and you have to accept that."

He opened up the first aid kit, letting its contents sprawl over the kitchen table. She watched him puzzle over the bandages and sprays. It was the first time this month that he had woken from his ghost-like haze. Maybe it was her pained cry as she dropped her bookbag on her toe, maybe it was the way Ruby rushed to her and clung to her skinned knees. Whatever had happened, it brought her dad back to her, and Yang was content.

"I loved your mother so much," he said. "I don't know why she left. Maybe she loved you and me, but something happened and she had to leave…. But that's okay, sunshine. I… I love her still, and that won't change."

She winced. It was May. Yesterday was the anniversary of Summer's death.

"People need to leave sometimes," her dad said, more to himself than to her. "I don't like it. I wish I could go with them. But I'm here, and I'm going to stay."

Yang watched as the skin over her knees bubbled with white foam. Dad picked up a second cotton ball, this one dipped in water, and wiped away the bubbles and dirt.

"How did you get this?" he asked.

“Dunno, dad. I kissed her, then she pushed me.”

“Oh, Yang…” Dad selected a bandage. “Why did you kiss her?”

“I wanted to say I love you.” Yang pouted as Dad peeled off the covering. “That’s what you and mommy did. That’s what you and Uncle Qrow do, right? It’s how you say _I love you._ ”

Dad froze.

 

“That’s different, sunshine. When… when we do it, we ask beforehand. We don’t kiss people who don’t want to be kissed.” He applied the bandage over the broken skin. “For example, if you don’t want to be kissed, then you tell me.”

“But what if I want a kiss?”

“Then you say, _dad, can I get a kiss?_ ”

She repeated it back to him. He beamed, and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Not everyone will say yes, but I always will. If they say no, sunshine, you can’t force them to change their mind. You need to respect their wishes. Can you do this for me?”

“Sure thing, dad.”

“All right, sunshine.” Her father got up from the kitchen table and closed the first aid kit. He cocked his head at the living room. “Sounds like The Magic School Bus is on! Ruby, did you get the cookies!”

“Yes, daddy!”

“Hang on, Pipsqueak, save some for your dad and sis." She could faintly hear her uncle and Ruby scuffling in the living room. "Hey! Don’t take mine!”

“Too slow!” her sister chirped.

Dad winked at her.

"Hurry up, sunshine. Sounds like there's a thief in the living room. We Hunters need to get her!"

Yang smiled at her father as he lifted her off the stool. Everything would be all right. She knew this was the truth. How could it not be, with the people she loved around her?


	3. Morning: Firecracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goldilocks wakes up in a bed that is not her own. Baby Bear has a proposition for her.

The morning light creeps through the slanted blinds, warming her face.

Yang turns over to hide her face. The bed below her is surprisingly clean, in a room that smells of gooseberries. It’s half the size of her bedroom in Patch, and a quarter of the size of the dorm room at Beacon. The sheets rustle – beige, fern-pattered, well-worn fabric moving in small waves around her. Yang attempts to get up, but the world is spinning beneath her feet and those pillows look very comfy –

She has never felt more alone.

Yang feels her sides. No stitches there, so at least she didn't become an involuntary organ donor some time during the night. Her skin is hot to the touch, blood pulsing through her body, but she is hollow and dead inside. There is nobody she knows pottering around in the other room, no dad with his trays of croissants and cream, no Uncle Qrow with the clink of his flask, no Ruby with her bright smile or Blake with her quiet grace. Damn it. She should have died at Beacon.

She sits up, puts her head in her hands. Her Aura flares through her body. No. She has to get up. She owes the ghosts of her past that much.

Where is she, anyways?

Yang scans the room. It’s not her hotel room, not with the posters of boybands plastered over the walls or the models of Grimm stacked on the desk in the corner. The closet is open, revealing a rack of towels and sheets. By the bed, there is a small dresser with a lamp, with tiny birds scrawled along the borders of the lampshade. A glass of water sits by her remaining gauntlet.

She picks up the note on the dresser. Two pills fall out onto the bedsheets.

_Take these. I promise they will help._

Yang considers the pills, shrugs, and leaves them on the bed. There’s no telling what’s in them.

* * *

The golden-haired brawler showers in the adjacent bathroom. The more she sees, the more she becomes convinced that this is someone’s home. It’s in the bottles of fruity conditioner sitting in the caddie decorated with plastic ferns, and the pile of disposable razors sitting in the trashcan.

She faintly remembers Junior asking if she had a place to stay last night.

She summons her Aura – with a flash of fire, her hair is instantly dry. She suits up, wincing at the griminess of old clothes, and leaves the bedroom.

Yang heads down the hallway, searching for a front door. There are pictures on every inch of the walls – of a smiling man, and a wisp of a girl. The girl ages in the photos – from a tiny toddler sitting on a slide, to a teen hoisting a huge sword over her back, to a woman who looks sturdy as a willow and terrifying as a landslide.

She finally enters the kitchen, where crystals have been placed on every single freaking surface. At the plain oak table, surrounded by vases of ferns, is a man reading the newspaper (the headlines still read: _Huntsman hospitalized in critical condition! Leader of the White Fang seen at the docks!_ ) His hands are decorated with faded dots on the knuckles, skulls and crosses ringing his fingers.

Right next to him, Junior is wolfing down pancakes, as if this is an everyday occurrence.

 

“What the fuck.”

“Hey, Blondie.” Junior downs a mug of coffee. “How’s the hangover?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” the man from the photos says, setting the newspaper down. His kind turquoise eyes immediately strike Yang as being the eyes of a father, and her heart hurts all the more. “I’m sorry. It seemed rude to call you Blondie. Should I refer to you as sir?”

Junior scoffs and picks up a pancake from the stack on the table. “Don’t coddle her, Dimitry, you weren’t there when she blew the place up. You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

“I did warn you about that attitude,” Dimitry says with a sniff.

Junior rolls his eyes. “Remind me again: why am _I_ the boss of the club?”

“I can only presume you sucked someone’s dick for it.”

Yang waves her stumpy arm. “Cripple’s still in the room. Why the fuck am I here?”

“Asked the old man to take you in,” Junior says, nodding to the other man. “S’not like I own a house. Bad business for a man like me.”

Dimitry gestures to the pancakes. “Please. These are for you. I promise, they are perfectly edible.”

“He can cook,” Junior says, batting the other man over the head. Yang is distinctly reminded of when uncle Qrow wanted to annoy dad, “even if he doesn’t like to admit it.”

Dimitry merely rolls his eyes and returns to his paper.

(- _to leave matters in the hands of the Hunt. A spokesman at Vale General Hospital declined to comment on his condition, citing–_ )

She rolls her arm, stretches her back, and readies for a fight. There’s something funny about all this. She can remember passing out at the bar, but nothing more.

“All of this comes at a cost, doesn’t it.”

Junior opens his mouth, but Dimitry beats him to it.

“There is no charge in my house,” he says, lowering the newspaper to level a long glare at Junior. Junior quails, and closes his mouth. “Now please. Eat. There are fresh clothes in your room if you need them later.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“You put her in your daughter’s room?” Junior asks, and immediately winces as Dimitry glares at him once more.

Yang looks for a door, immediately regretting her words. “Look, I’ll go–“

“There’s no need, ma’am.” Dimitry looks down. “She will never wake up.”

The wind rushes from her lungs. This man knows her pain.

He looks up, and they lock eyes. “Did I know her?” Yang asks as gently as her wounded soul can.

Dimitry offers her a brittle smile. “She was about to graduate. I highly doubt so. Besides… she had not been home for a long, long time. There is no place for a Huntress among men like me.” He waves at the pancakes. “Now, please eat. They are best warm.”

 

She sits down, and eats. It’s a weird feeling – Dimitry and Junior talk about trade routes and how to recover profits when nobody wants to visit a dance club. At one point, Junior gets up to make coffee. He comes back with three cups: the first goes to Dimitry, who acknowledges it with a nod; the second to Yang, and the last goes to his place at the table.

It feels so… domestic.

Yang thought she had lost that forever, when Ruby and Qrow left.

“–If the White Fang’s leader is truly wounded, then you would do best to capitalize.” Dimitry nods. “Yes. Your business will benefit if you run charity events. Go to the Faunus. They suffer the most from these events.”

Junior groans and laces his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to deal with them, Dimitry, they could be with–“

“Junior Xiong.” Dimitry’s tone is ice in the air. “Attitude. You are a businessman. Take the advantage. If the White Fang rises to prominence, this alliance will protect you. If not, you will gain business in their sector.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m in deep shit, I already fell in with Roman–“

Dimitry slaps Junior over the head. “And in doing so, you have given me even more work.”

“Well, if Blondie–“

“You cannot depend on her!” Dimitry’s eyes are hard. Yang thinks of glaciers, crawling across the frozen land and claiming it for their own. “She is a Huntress, and she will make her choices. If she wanted, she could turn you in this minute.”

“Listen to him, Junior,” Yang says through a last mouthful of pancake. “I’m armless, I don’t have a partner, and I’m missing one of my weapons. Not exactly useful here.”

“But you could be,” Junior insists. “Listen, Blondie– you may not think you're useful. You are. Times are tough. People these days are scared. They don’t know who to trust, but they do know they need someone who can fight. They flock to the Huntsmen and Huntresses. You could come work for me – it’s great pay, you’d stand around looking scary when you needed to, we’ve got dental and doctors on call…”

Yang plops a strawberry into her mouth ( _she faintly recalls Summer doing the same to her dad, it was so long ago, why couldn't Summer still be here_?) “Hey, were you watching the tournament? People think I’m a nutcase. I’m the reason why the Grimm stormed Beacon.”

“Even better,” Junior says, leaning forward. His tie dips into his coffee. Dimitry sighs and lifts the fabric away. “Look, Blondie. You smashed up my place pretty good. If I wanted to, I could call the police on you.”

“I bet they’re more worried about the Grimm,” Yang says.

Junior grins, revealing more teeth than necessary. “ _I’m the reason why the Grimm stormed Beacon_. You know, Blondie, that’s not a good thing to tell an info broker.”

Yang sighs.

“Look, I really don’t give a fuck. Just let me get drunk.”

“Come on, Blondie, you–“

“Enough, Junior.” Dimitry’s voice cuts through the air. They both turn to look at him. “Ma’am, we’ll talk more once you finish breakfast.”

Yang empties a glass of orange juice. “I’m ready to go,” she tells him.

Dimitry puts on his scarlet-tinted shades ( _the same color as Ruby’s cloak_ , she thinks with a pang of loss.) “Where to, ma’am?”

“Where am I?”

“Not far from the Club,” Junior says. “We didn’t want to get charged with kidnapping a Huntress.”

She runs the math in her head.

“I’ll be at the bar by seven, tonight,” she says. “Got to visit someone first."

 

* * *

 

 

Yang has never liked hospitals - she has taken too many spills on Bumblebee, too many punches thrown and misconnected, too many bones shattered then screwed back into place. And now the stub of her right arm throbs uncomfortably when she enters the antiseptic air. She can taste despair on the air, see it in the drawn faces of mothers clutching coughing children or Huntsmen lying slack in the uncomfortable fold-out chairs, blood dripping along their legs. She sees a few classmates from Beacon - third years and fourth years, helping to clear Grimm from Vale. There are Faunus among the humans - visible mainly by the blood pouring from their heads where ears must have sat and the puddles of dark red liquid under their seats. She sees missing faces and broken souls, all coalescing in a melting pot of human and Faunus misery.

The receptionists try to stem the tide of patients. Doctors flow in and out of the hospital reception. Nurses bustle past, ushering patients down the room and into the fluorescent light of the hallways. Occasionally a gurney will roll past, in a flurry of green gowns (how she hates the gowns, and how they feel on her body) and pale blue surgical scrubs.

She takes a breath, then another.

Yang takes her place in the receptionists' line, until at last, she stands before a raven Faunus (only distinguishable by the plume of feathers that trails off her head, she looks like Yang's blood mother in a neat pastel pink business suit)  who looks like she needs an IV drip of coffee. Or vodka. Yang supposes either would do.

"Purpose?" the receptionist asks.

Yang takes a deep breath.

_my fault my fault my fault I was too slow, I'm the reason he's here_

She draws on her fire, stands up straight, lifts her head and speaks with confidence she does not feel.

"I'm here to see Taiyang Xiao Long."


	4. Spent Shotgun Shells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…  
> Please don't take my sunshine away…

“Hey, dad.”

Only his raspy breaths answer her.

Yang sits down on the chair beside the bed, wincing at the rustle of the hospital gown around her form. Oh, she recognizes the need for decontamination – particularly when the patient is on the knife’s edge of death – but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. She has spent enough time in these flabby green gowns for a lifetime.

 _Ghost gowns_ , Taiyang had laughed when he last saw her in one. _You’re ready to star in Ghostbusters, sunshine_.

And now it’s his turn to lie in a hospital cot, tubes threading his veins, machines circling him like wolves around a dying stag. His tanned skin is pale in the fluorescent glare of hospital lights. Almost every inch of his body is wrapped in gauze – that which is not is stitched up with neat rows of black thread.

She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“It’s done,” she says. “You’re going under the knife today.”

It seems ages since she was at breakfast, watching Dimitry read the newspaper and Junior eating pancakes. She glances at the clock. She spent six hours signing forms, waiting for insurance to call back, waiting for the Hunt to have its say, wait for goddamn General Ironwood to finally get back on the implant… but it’s okay. It has been six hours since she walked into the hospital, and this may be the last time she sees her dad alive.

A screen begins to whir.

She looks at the bald head, shorn of its golden locks, and restrains the bile rising in her throat. A good chunk of Taiyang’s head is caved in, the dent obvious against the teal-colored pillows.

 

( _–her father roaring, axes held aloft – Ember Celica singing on her left arm, the gun welded to her right arm heating up as it spat hot iron and Dust – they had him, they had him, Adam Taurus was going to die like a bull in the arena and they were the matadors_ –)

 

“I guess mom – Raven, I mean, was good for something. Nice of her to give us enough money to cover the surgery. You think she’ll be mad we blew through the hundred thousand lien? I know mom wouldn’t be impressed… remember the time I spent six months’ allowance on that Beowolf plushie? Mom kept asking why.” She chuckles. “You were so proud when I gave it to Ruby.”

Yang reaches out and clasps the right hand that dangles from the aqua-colored sheets. There’s no strength to the corded tendons that run the length of his arm. She thinks of an old rubber band, thin and crumbled and ready to snap.

 

( _– the blood red sword came up once again, grazing her side but it burned like hellfire had come to seek her soul–_ )

 

Her dad’s chest rises in a slow, easy rhythm, aided by the tubes going down his throat.

The old wound on her side twinges. She makes to rub it, but feels nothing.

Yang looks down.

Of course she can’t feel anything. She doesn’t have a right arm anymore.

 

(– _“GET AWAY FROM HER!_ –)

 

“I guess not… she said she loved us. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to d… Anyways, I haven’t heard from Uncle Qrow or Ruby. I tried to send them a message, but you know, the towers are down… I guess we’re the only two left, dad.”

 

(– _she was too slow – the sword went through her side, and black blood gushed out–_ )

 

Yang focuses on his face – the nose broken in three places, the gash along the cheek. Taiyang’s eyes occasionally flutter, revealing hints of bright blue against his unnaturally pale skin. She knows that if the blanket weren’t covering his chest, she’d see thousands of gashes and cuts.

 

( _–he had roared – flames hardened on his body as he transformed–_ )

 

She thinks of the times their roles were reversed: not five months ago, after Beacon fell and she lost her right arm; eighteen months ago, after a bad knockout in a tournament; three years ago, after a nasty spill from Bumblebee, and countless times in and out for broken bones. Dad was always there: his solid, warm presence like the sun on her face. And though she longed for Raven – she called her _mom_ back then, Yang can’t believe she spent so long trying find that woman – Dad was there, with his songs and a promise of, “I’m never leaving you, sunshine. _”_

 

(– _“I’LL KILL YOU!”_ – _and where her father once stood, a dragon coiled over the salt-slicked ground–_ )

 

“Hang in there. You’re strong. That’s what you used to tell me, right? I know you’ll make it through.” She chokes back the lump in her throat. “We’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna go through the surgery, you’re gonna come home, and when Ruby and Qrow are back, we’ll be a family again. It’ll be the four of us. It’ll be good. I promise.”

Yang sinks to her knees.

The hospital cot seems more like a funeral bier.

 

(– _scaly jaws seized Adam around his waist – the long sword glowed ominously, shaking in the man’s hand–_ )

 

“I… daddy, I don’t want to be left alone. You’re the only one I have now.”

She’s shaking as she clasps his hand – she wants to hug him, feel the solid thump of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, but she doesn’t want to worsen the three broken ribs that refuse to heal.

"I don't wanna be alone. Please, daddy. I'll be good. I promise."

 

( _–Adam brought the hilt down – everything went red, black and white_ –)

 

Yang presses her forehead against his hand.

 

(– _screaming – fire burning through her veins – Ember Celica dove into his gut–_ )

 

“Please, daddy…”

 

(– _“Daddy! Daddy! No! Please, wake up! You can’t die on me!”– “it’s okay, sunshine…”_ )

 

“Don’t leave me…”

 

The tears fall thick and fast onto the tiled hospital floor.

 

“Miss Xiao Long?” a soft male voice asks.

Yang squeezes her eyes shut. The last tears trail along her cheeks.

She thinks of dad singing as he braided her hair. His favorite was a soft, gentle song he had written the day she was born - he promised to stay with her, and that was the lullaby of her childhood. Sometimes, he’d sing of gold and a summer’s day – it was her song, the one she wrote for Ruby, but it felt right when he sang it to both of them.

“Miss Xiao Long?”

She stands, wipes her eyes on the back of her gloved hand, pivots to face the door where a nurse in surgical scrubs stands.

The nurse’s eyes flicker briefly to her missing arm. To his credit, the pity quickly leaves his face.

“We need to begin preparations for surgery,” he says gently.

Yang nods. The implication is clear: _say good-bye._

 

There are so many things she has left to say, but not enough time for all of them. She grips Taiyang’s hand – feels the pulse of hot blood through his fingers, remembers when they combed the tangles from her golden locks – she breathes in deep, because dad smells like home and wherever he is, home goes with him – she listens for the soft rasp of his breath, and remembers how loudly he used to snore when Summer was still alive–

 It might be time for dad to join mom.

The tears come hot and fast once again.

She kisses her father’s forehead, and does not look at the hollow behind his head.

“I love you, daddy.”

Yang slowly lets go of his hand.

She gets up. As if on signal, the male nurse ushers her out while doctors and other nurses swarm into the room.

 

The last she sees of Taiyang Xiao Long is his bulky form, lost under a maze of machinery and tubing, wheeled away by an army of nurses and doctors.

 


	5. Evening: Batter Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the hospital, to the bar. A certain Junior Bear won't let up.

She heads straight for the bar, where Junior and Dimitry sit, salt still caking her cheeks and the deep ache of loneliness gnawing at her heart. The henchmen part around her like water over rocks.

 

( _–“Miss Xiao Long, was it? The daughter of the patient, Mr. Xiao Long?_ ”)

 

The memory flows over her: the stench of antiseptic and some woman’s flowery perfume stinking up the air, the freshly pressed lines of the surgeon’s scrubs, a faint ticking of a faraway clock… 

Yang doesn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. Not now, when her existence seems to revolve around three points of contact: a man in a hospital, two teammates AWOL, and a sister off saving the world while she stagnates in Vale.

Yet again, she longs for the dorm room in Beacon, with a bed hanging precariously from the ceiling and a makeshift bunkbed supported only by thick books. Yang can almost hear the loud, chainsaw drone of Weiss’s snoring, or the horribly off-tune melodies Blake sang in the shower. She feels cookie crumbs on her skin, the rustle of textbooks against her elbow, sandpaper grit on her fingertips and for one fleeting moment, she feels like she’s home.

Junior sets his Scroll aside.

“Looking down, Blondie. Some boytoy break your heart?”

The nostalgia vanishes.

 

Dimitry hits the bearded man over the head. “Attitude!”

“Ow! Chief, I was trying to lighten the mood for little miss thundercloud!”

“How many times have I told you to hold your tongue? Not everyone appreciates your jokes.” The other man, now dressed in a dark grey business suit and dull green tie, waves her over. “Ignore him, ma’am. What will you have today?”

She sets a hand full of credits on the counter. “We’ve been through this before. Just give me a drink… I’ll be quiet.”

Junior checks the credits, then swipes two fives. “You sure you don’t want a Strawberry Sunrise, Blondie? You could use the sugar. Or the umbrella, if you really want to stab my eyes out.”

Beside him, Dimitry massages his forehead. “Junior, you’ll be the death of me. Why do you insist on inviting trouble?”

The bearded man flashes her a wink as he pulls out a glass from underneath the counter. “For all the shit I pull, the chief still loves me.”

“He’s delusional,” Dimitry says, though the smile says otherwise.

Yang manages a weak chuckle. “Could I get a raincheck for that? I’d like something hard today.”

“How hard?” Junior runs his fingers over a series of clear glass bottles stacked against the wall. “Wake-up-shoeless-in-Atlas hard, forget-my-name hard…?”

She plops onto a stool. “I’d like a side of forget-today-ever-happened.”

 

(– _“Miss Xiao Long, let’s sit down.” The surgeon had kind eyes – golden eyes, just like Blake’s. Bile rose in Yang’s throat as the surgeon motioned to a quiet side room. “I’m afraid we need to discuss something–_ “)

 

“Scratch that. Waking up in Atlas it is.”

 

 _Maybe I could find Weiss_ , she thinks as she watches Junior consider the wall of bottles behind him. _She could… she could help me pay… she would know what to do, she’s smart, she’s not like me, she would have a plan._

 

Dimitry hums, and she snaps back to Remnant. 

“Junior, is there still Everclear–“

“No.” Junior clears his throat. “Nothing against you, Blondie. The last time I gave Everclear to someone with a fire Semblance, they set themselves on fire. And the bartop. And the dance floor. I’d like to keep my only customer unburnt, chief." 

“It kills off memory-holding brain cells.”

“Along with every other cell in your brain. We can't all be alcoholics like you, chief.” Junior’s fingers ghost over a bottle shaped like a cluster of cherries. “Kirschwasser, Blondie? Cherry-flavored schnapps, 90 proof.”

Yang briefly thinks of Ruby’s face, red as a cherry, lips puckered after swallowing a mouthful of pear schnapps Weiss had procured. To the reaper’s dismay, no, the schnapps did not taste like juice.

Dimitry shudders. “You might as well buy Black Forest cake and grind up those disgusting cherries.” He purses his lips. “Ma’am, is wine okay?”

“Need something stronger,” she says, slumping against the counter. “Wine doesn’t do a thing for me.”

“An alcoholic already? Aren’t you a little young?” Junior asks, smiling slightly.

“I’m old enough to die – and watch my friends and family die – for the greater good.” Yang tips her head. “If you really wanna know, Junior, I’ve been legal for two years.”

Junior glances over his shoulder. “Great. Why do I still feel like the cops are hanging over my shoulder?”

“I’ll ensure that your liquor license is not revoked,” Dimitry says lightly. Junior bats the other man over the head. “Let’s see… Strawberry Sunrise, but harder… no schnapps, not gin…” His turquoise eyes light up. “Mistralian grappa.”

“Chief, do you really think Blondie here can handle it?”

She raises her remaining hand, and flashes him a thumbs up. “If it’ll get me drunk, we are good to go.”

Junior scratches his chin. “I really should have you sign a waiver.”

She waves her remaining arm. “Already have a will.” Dimitry makes a noise of disbelief. “Standard practice when you go to combat school.”

“It isn’t,” Dimitry says, looking at Junior. “Beacon does not require it. I would know.”

“In Patch, they do,” she lies.

In fact, her will lies on top of the kitchen table at home, pinned down by an empty beer bottle. She wrote it before setting off to kill Adam Taurus.

“It’s your neck, Blondie.” Junior brings out a swan-shaped flask and pours out a swallow’s worth into an espresso cup. The almost-clear liquid smells faintly musty, like old grapes sitting out in the sun. “120 proof. Try not to knock yourself out.”

She sips it, letting it settle on her tongue. The alcohol barrels into her like a wall of sweetened flame. Heat rises to her cheeks. The grappa’s scent banishes the stench of the hospital.

Unbidden, she thinks of Uncle Qrow, and the flask filled with gin always present on his thigh. She thinks she understands now.

“This’ll do.”

 

Junior fills up a wine glass, then hands it to her. “And you, chief?”

Dimitry waves his hand. “I’ll be fine. Now, as I was saying, a banquet might not work with your club’s décor–“

The bearded club owner rolls his eyes. “We got bigger fish to fry, chief.” Yang feels his eyes roving over her, examining every inch of her body. “For one, I’d like to know why Blondie here is looking so down.”

She lifts the wine glass to her lips and drinks, saving her from a response.

“Give her space. She came here to drink, not to listen to your propositions,” Dimitry says. “That is not your business.”

“Of course it is. If something’s upset a Huntress, it means bad news for us all.”

Dimitry takes out a Scroll and presses his thumb to the screen. With a whirl of green, the device unlocks. “I can only imagine what a failed dance at Beacon would do for your business.”

With a pang, Yang thinks of Blake in the form-fitting black dress. She can almost feel the silken fabric brush against her bare legs.

She downs more of the grappa. Her glass is almost empty. The world is swirling around her in a blur of mirrored surfaces and blood-red lights.

“Chief, the comm tower’s still down.” Junior opens up a can of beer. Cheap beer, the kind her dad would refuse to drink. “You’re not gonna get a signal for months.”

“It’s not about the Atlesian Chariot.” Dimitry shakes his head, and swipes his thumb across the screen. She barely has enough time to see the background: a woman in a swirling green dress, a tiny girl perched on her shoulders, and Dimitry himself holding the woman around the waist. “White Fang appears disoriented. Now would be the best time to garner sympathy.”

“Chief, I really don’t care about that.” Junior nods to Yang. “Look, we gotta work out a deal soon, or she’s gonna be in deep shit.”

Dimitry rubs his eyes and turns to her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s still convinced that you could work for him.”

“Just like the old days,” Junior adds. “Maybe with less destruction.”

Just like the old days.

 

(–“ _Yang? Is that you?” – she looked up, and the fire receded from her eyes – “Oh, hey sis!” – Ruby’s hands were on her hips, “What are you doing here?”_ –)

 

Suddenly, the club – although it is almost empty – is too crowded. She feels the mirrored surfaces presses in on her, like a monstrous version of a funfair house.

 

Junior comes out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on his slacks. “Listen to me, Blondie. Me and you, we could help each other out. Is it your dad? I’ve heard he’s in the hospital. You could use some cash. My business is sinking. People don’t want to go out when there’s Grimm prowling around. I need someone to help keep this place safe for customers.”

Dimitry presses a hand to his forehead and begins massaging his temples.

“You’re a smart girl. A good-looking one, too.”

“For God’s sake,” she hears Dimitry mutters, though her eyes are focused on the scarlet of Junior’s tie. Does Junior know that he bears the same colors as the leader of the White Fang? Surely, just a coincidence.

“Trust me, Blondie, I’m not trying to take advantage of you. I think we can make a deal.” The bearded club owner stands directly before her, his presence infringing on the fragile barriers she has set up. “I can pay you, set you up with a place to live–“

“ _Junior_ ,” Dimitry says.

“I can give you an arm.” Junior takes a step forward, until he’s right next to her. “I’ve got contacts, we could get a surgeon from Atlas and pop a brand new arm on you. I can give you the freedom the White Fang stole away.”

Yang drains the rest of her grappa before replying. She could use the Everclear Dimitry mentioned earlier.

“Personal space.”

“Think about it, Blondie.“ Junior sets a hand on her shoulder. “You can do so much more here than out in the streets.”

The walls come crashing down.

She grabs him by the tie, fire singing through her veins.

“Listen, Junior. I was stuck in the hospital for the past twelve fucking hours. My dad’s running out of time and money. My partner’s gone, my team’s gone, everyone I love is gone and I’m out of fucks to give. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Blondie, come on–“

She grabs him by the balls, and squeezes.

“Go away.” Yang’s hand drops to her side. She leans against the bar counter, suddenly exhausted. “Please, Junior. I don’t want to talk right now.”

Junior squeaks and stumbles forward. He falls flat on his face before Dimitry’s chair. 

“And may that be a lesson to respect people’s boundaries.” Dimitry slides off his seat and helps Junior to his feet. “You should know this by now.”

Junior rubs his thighs and leans against the bar counter. “You could have said something a lot earlier, chief.”

“I did warn you. Now, don’t you have a meeting?”

The bearded club owner runs a hand through his hair. “Wait, how do you know–“

Dimitry looks at him.

“–Right. Uh, okay. See you around, Blondie. Chief.” He bows briefly to Dimitry, and wobbles behind the bar counter to the service door.

 

Dimitry sighs as the service door swings shut. “Boy has a death wish, I swear.”

Yang shrugs. “Can I get another drink? This grappa’s pretty good.”

He gets behind the counter, grabs the swan-shaped bottle, and tops her glass off. Two more five-lien chips go into the register. As she drinks, Dimitry slips behind the service door.

She contemplates the clear drink in her hands. There’s an emptiness settling in her chest, a void filling up the space between her ribs, one that craves touch and the warmth of skin. She thinks of the bristle of her father’s stubble against her forehead and Uncle Qrow’s steady fingers as he taped up her knuckles. She thinks of Blake’s weight, pressed against her back, a solid warmth in the darkness of a patrol in Forever Fall. She can almost feel Ruby’s arms, tight around her shoulders.

( _“I’m so glad you’re okay!_ ” _Ruby had said_. “ _But I’m not,” she replied._ )

A warm haze drops over the world, as the grappa disappears down her gut.

The glass is half-empty when Dimitry reappears, a plate of steaming kebabs in his hands. He places the beef, eggplant and pepper skewers before her. As his arms go down, his collar shifts. The club’s light glances off the sliver of skin, revealing a broad scar on the side of his neck.

Dimitry tugs his collar back into place. “Ma’am, please eat.” He rejoins her on the other side of the bar. “You’ll feel better.”

“Douuubt it.” She shakes her head. Fire flashes through her body, and chases the alcohol away. “Thanks for caring.”

“Please eat.” He pushes the plate closer, and she thinks of her dad – Taiyang bearing platters of freshly baked bread and cold cream, begging her to eat and snap out of her depression. “The alcohol goes down better with beef.”

It’s that memory that reluctantly drives her to pick up a skewer and take a bite of a cube of beef. Pink juice drips down her chin. She can faintly taste lemon and honey, maybe a bit of basil. Her father would have a fit. She can almost hear him yelling, “ _those flavors don’t go together! Drop the basil and use lemongrass!_ ”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I forgot to ask. You’re not vegetarian?”

“No,” she says. Hot tears brim at her eyes, but she blinks them back. “I’m good with meat.”

Dimitry hums in response. He takes out his Scroll, grabs Junior's abandoned beer and begins to sift through a long text.

 

They sit in near silence, broken only by the swipe of his fingers and her chewing. The DJ has long since turned off the music, and most of the henchmen have deserted the empty club.

The eggplant is slightly charred, but she doesn’t care. Peppery heat races along her tongue. There’s not enough soy sauce or garlic to make it taste like Taiyang’s stirfry, but every bite is a reminder that she will never taste his cooking again.

 

(– _“We’re so sorry,”_ _the surgeon said, taking her hands. “The transplant failed to take. I’m afraid your father suffered a stroke during the operation – it was extremely bad luck – but… Miss Xiao Long? Do you need a minute? No? Well… the bad news is that he will most likely never wake up again._ ”)

 

A five on the Glasgow Coma Scale. She rolls a piece of roasted bell pepper over her tongue. Tears drip freely down her cheeks. Five, on a fifteen-point scale. Closer to death than any semblance of life. There is only be an empty shell lying in the hospital.

White paper appears below her nose, neatly catching a tear that drips off her face.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitry says.

She looks up. Instead of the dark-haired man, she sees her father sitting before her.

Yang blinks hard, and shakes her head. Dimitry sits before her once again.

“What for?” she chokes out. She pushes the plate of finished skewers away. The food churns uncomfortably in her stomach – she does not want to cry in front of a complete stranger.

He offers her the paper towel. Yang wipes her face clean.

“I’m sorry that you must endure this.”

“I chose this,” she says, voice barely louder than a whisper. She takes a shuddering breath. “I chose this life. I k-knew what was going to happen. It’s… I d-deserve this.”

 

_too slow too slow my fault I’m the reason he’s near dead_

 

A clock chimes somewhere.

Dimitry glances at his Scroll. “One AM. I’m afraid the bar has to close, ma’am.” He offers her his hand. “Bedtime for most citizens.”

She thinks of offering a protest.

“Please, Yang.” She hears the father in his voice. “I think you should rest.”

The golden-haired brawler is so tired.

She caves.

 

Yang lets him guide her out, pretending it’s her father who steadies her and lets her lean against him. If she closes her eyes, she sees the flaxen-gold of Taiyang’s hair instead of the dull-black of Dimitry’s. She pretends the heat racing along her veins is from her father’s Aura and not the alcohol coursing through her body. She ignores their trajectory, past dark apartments and empty alleyways, and remembers the forested dirt path to a log cabin in Patch.

It’s up a flight of stairs, then another – a lock clicks in the door – yet another flight of stairs that torture her weary muscles – and then there’s a soft bed that smells of earth, and Yang surrenders to sleep.


	6. Night: Bumblebee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Float like a bird, sting like a bee.
> 
> Yang x Blake

Yang Xiao Long was well acquainted with how love changed the way her body moved. She recognized it in the hummingbird-drum of her heartbeat; the heat rising to her cheeks; and every so often, an odd flutter of her stomach accompanied by a slight pang in her chest.

“ _Not again_ ,” she thought as the girl sheathed her blade.

They lock eyes.

The black-haired girl – a wisp of shadow made human – has beautiful amber eyes.

“I could’ve taken him,” Yang said.

A small smile crept up the other girl’s face. “I don’t doubt it.”

Yang straightened her skirt and walked forward, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “Well! I guess we got off on the wrong foot, but can I get a redo? The name’s Yang Xiao Long, punster extraordinaire. Some think they’re bearly tolerable, but I hope they won’t give you too much pause.”

“That was terrible,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. She leaps over the disintegrating corpse and offers her hand. “My name is Blake Belladonna.”

 

* * *

 

“Yang? Wake up.”

She raised a groggy head from the study desk and felt her neck. Yang rolled her head from side to side, wincing at the crack.

The dorm was dark, except for the pool of light surrounding her desk. Through the open window, the broken moon stood vigil. Leaves whistled in the trees below. She looked to the side, where Blake was standing with two mugs in hand.

Three months after initiation had served to bind the two partners together. Even two months ago, Blake would probably have been in the library at this hour, cramming for the Grimm Anatomy test tomorrow.

“Whazzhapen?”

Blake perched on the side of the desk, holding out a mug of coffee. “You were studying.” She made a spot for the mug in the mess of looseleaf papers. “I guess you really don’t like Professor Port’s class.”

Yang looked at her drawing of an Alpha Beowolf – at least, what used to be a drawing, until she drooled all over it.

“Aww, shoot. I even color-coded it…” She dabbed at the paper with a tissue, trying to salvage the lines from the slurred mess. “Wait, why are you giggling?”

Blake tapped her cheek. “I think you really need that coffee.”

Yang pulled out her Scroll, and stared. Her golden locks and right cheek were black with ink.

“Oh, no no no no, this isn’t good.” Yang snagged a tissue from the box on the table and wet it with some bottled water. “Shoot, this better not stain!”

“Why the panic?” Blake asked as Yang ran the stained strands of hair through the wet towel over and over again.

“It’s my hair!”

The dark-haired girl only shakes her head, unimpressed. Yang’s heart sinks deep into the recesses of her chest.

 

 _I’m sorry,_ she thought, _I never wanted you to see this side of me. I thought I could start over._

 

Blake sipped from her mug. Through her panic, Yang caught a hint of bergamot, maybe something earthy and cinnamony as well.

“While I agree it does look good on you, are you sure it’s worth–“

“Yes, it is!”

_I'm worth more than my looks. I'm worth more than my looks._

She rubbed at her hair, but the ink was stuck fast.

“Damn it.” Yang nearly knocked over the coffee cup in her haste to grab her pencil case. “Where are my scissors…”

“Yang, I don’t understand.” Blake set a hand on the ruined diagram. “You look beautiful as always.”

The golden-haired brawler dug through her bag, trying to restrain the panic bubbling in her stomach. “It’s a long story. A-a Xiao Long story if you will.”

Blake went to her desk. When she returned, she had a pair of sewing scissors in hand.

“A story for a pair of scissors?” she asked.

Some part of Yang was screaming, _holy crap holy she’s noticing me_. The more prominent part of her brain screamed, _oh crap she’s going to realize I’m a shallow bimbo._

Yang separated the stained hairs from the untinted ones. “Blake, um, I’m not really comfortable talking about this. Can you, you know…”

Blake drew a finger across her lips. “It’s safe with me.” 

Yang sighed. She lined up the pair of scissors, using the Scroll’s screen to guide her hand. “Look. I’m not a smart person. I’m not a very strong person either. Sure, I can tank hits, but if somebody leaves me? I’m a freaking mess.”

“I’m fairly sure I won’t stop being your partner because your hair is a mess.” Blake’s lips curve up. “You look good with ombre tips. Then again, I might be biased. I do like black.”

Her heart fluttered within her chest, but the memories tamped it back down.

“I… Blake… my looks are really all I’ve got.” She snipped. Black-tipped golden locks settled on the smudged drawing. The Beowolf looked like a star had burst within its chest. “Every time I fa– every time I get attached to someone, they want something from me. Sometimes, well, almost all the time,” Yang groped her breasts, “that’s all they’re there for. You remember the group of _friends_ who came with me to Beacon?”

Fabric ruffled as Blake tilted her head. “No, I’m afraid.”

Yang choked back a laugh. “S’not like it matters. They were kids back from Patch, where I grew up. I… I left Ruby alone on the airstrip that day. I thought it would be better that way, force her to make some friends. I… I didn’t realize I needed friends too.”

She traced the calluses lining her wrists, Ember Celica’s mark engraved in her skin.

“It’s so silly. They ditched me that day, after the ceremony. T-told me off, said I was just an air-headed bimbo with only tits and ass to my name. That’s… that’s how it always goes. A-and w-when they realize I’ve got a n-nasty temper… then…”

The dark-haired woman pulled out the wastebin from beneath the desk. Yang took up the sheet of paper, and tipped the loose hairs into the trash.

“I want to be more than that,” Yang says, staring hard at the girl in the Scroll’s screen. “I don’t want to be just the girl with huge boobs and a fiery temper. I want people to see that I’m so much more.” She trails a finger down the girl’s ink-smeared cheek. “I want to be top of the class, I want to be loved, I want people to want me too. But they won’t give me a chance, unless I… unless I look like the person they want.”

 

Blake was quiet for some time.

She went to her desk and brought back a thick leather-bound notebook.

“They don’t know what they’re missing out,” she said, flipping to a page covered in Alpha Beowolves. Yang marveled at the detail: every bone spike was in place, every claw was labeled and every weak point highlighted in red pen. “Hey, I could use some help studying.”

“You–? But you’re… you’re top of the class!”

Blake smiled slightly. “Actually… I have trouble reading.”

“What.”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?” Blake trailed a finger down the curve of a Beowolf’s thigh. “I grew up poor. There wasn’t a book in my… my ‘house’ until I was ten. I guess since I started late – well, to be fair, I _can_ read fast. I might not understand it until I read it another ten times. It’s always been easier for me to listen to others.”

“But you read so many books…”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Yang, how many books have you seen me _finish?_ ”

She had a point.

“I just love books. So… no matter how hard it is, I keep trying. I start new books all the time, but I have trouble finishing them. Sometimes I don’t want them to end. Other times, I just can’t concentrate long enough.” Blake picked up a pen and handed the notebook to Yang. “If you could help me study… I’d appreciate it.” 

Yang took up the notebook. “Okay… what is the appendicular system in Grimm?”

“It means the legs, arms, and the girdles attaching them,” Blake said immediately. “I remember it by the acronym ALAG. The axial system is the ribs, the backbone, and the tail, or ARBT. _Yang_ , I know it sounds like _our butt.”_

Yang smiled. “I’m definitely going to remember that.”

Blake tapped a finger against the desk. “Let’s see… and the head gets a special classification: it’s the cranial system.”

The blonde-haired filed away the information.

“Right… So, um, do Grimm have appendicular muscles?”

“For some species, yes. Others like the… hmm… not Beowolf, not Ursa…”

“Griffins,” Yang supplied.

Something flashed in Blake’s eyes. “Right. We don’t know much about the anatomy of Elder Grimm, such as Griffins and Goliaths.”

They fell into an easy rhythm: Yang reading out the questions neatly written on one side of the page, Blake reciting the answers with her eyes half-lidded.

The moon rose higher into the sky. The duo studied long into the night.

 

* * *

 

“Despicable.” Blake dropped her bookbag at her desk. “Absolutely despicable. I can’t believe Beacon lets people like _them_ in. We are supposed to be the protectors of the people, and we can’t even treat our own right!"

“Cardin’s a dick,” Yang said as she dropped her sweater over her chair, “but did you really expect more from him?”

“I thought it could be different.” Blake collapsed onto her bed and closed her eyes. “I thought we could change.”

They had been partners for four months now, heading into the biting cold of winter. January grated against the dorm’s windows, leaving icy scratches where the freezing rain had attacked.

Yang knew by now that Blake gave answers only when she wanted. And so the golden-haired brawler waited.

“Long ago, I thought the Huntsmen and Huntresses would be forces of good.” Blake buried her face in the pillow. “It was a childish dream.”

“But… isn’t Team RWBY a force for…?”

Blake sat up, hands fisted in the scarlet bedsheets. “You have Weiss, heir to the Schnee Dust Company, complicit in the murder and mass exploitation of Faunus. Why can she walk free, while so many others in the fringes of the kingdoms suffer? Why does she have the right to enforce justice, when she gives none to those below her station?”

“Blake, I don’t understand. Where’s this all coming from?”

The dark-haired girl shook her head. “Years and years of frustration… It’s been a 112 years since the creation of Menagerie, and still, a pair of ears is the only reason people need to turn a Faunus into a punching bag… or some sort of fetish.” Blake shuddered. “I’ve seen the way some students look at Velvet, as if she’s only there to get them off. I’ve seen it in the streets, I’ve seen it in the kingdom, I… It’s everywhere. And nobody questions it! Nobody doubts that ears or tails make you different enough that you’re… you’re not worth as much as a _human_.”

Blake’s nails raked across her sheets.

“I… I can’t believe I thought Beacon would be different.”

Yang considered it. She thought about Cardin, pulling their upperclassman’s ears like she was some circus freak. She thought about how team RWBY and JNPR dismissed CRDL’s actions. Then again… they hadn’t actually done anything to help. Somehow, there was an expectation that Velvet could handle her own.

“What can I do?” 

Blake ran her hands through her dark locks. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to change the world when everything is just so… so broken.”

Yang went over to her partner’s bed. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Her partner patted the mattress, and Yang perched on the side. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a trapped bird in the confines of her ribcage. “Well… Maybe I could go ask Velvet to sit with us? I doubt team CRDL will pick on her if she’s with us."

“That could help,” Blake murmured. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired of this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, heart surging in her chest. “I want to help.”

For the first time that day, Blake offered her a smile.

“Thanks, partner,” she said.

 

* * *

Blake ran.

But she, unlike so many before her, came back. 

* * *

 

“Hey, Blake? Can we talk?”

The two were alone in the dorm once more. Weiss and Ruby were with Goodwitch, explaining why they had returned to Beacon late. Although the previous weekend’s revelations had somewhat shaken the blonde brawler, Yang was drawn to Blake like a moth to the flame. Somehow, the revelation only made the burn in her chest hotter: here was a woman, who had suffered so much, who in the span of three days was willing to view her past with a critical eye and move forward. Something about that strength lured Yang in.

At the moment, Blake was curled up by the closed window, a book in her lap. A few snowflakes fluttered past the glass.

The other woman turned the page. “Yang, I… I said I’m sorry.”

Yang took a deep breath.

“Blake, I don’t care what or who you are – you could be a ghost for all I care, and I’d still love you like I do now.”

 

There was silence for a few moments. Her blood pulsed hot and thick, ready to run at a moment’s notice. She wasn’t sure if it was the right time. All Yang wanted was to give Blake somewhere to call home. She hoped that it would be in her arms… even if she had seen how Blake’s eyes lit up when the black-haired warrior looked at Sun.

“Do you know how many I’ve killed?”

Yang turned the thought over in her head.

 _She’s beautiful_ , a treacherous part of her heart whispered, _and deadly too. She could be everything you wanted. She loves to read, she’s a great student – maybe one day, she could care for you._

“Will you do it again?”

“N-no.” Blake shuddered and closed the book. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know why I said that. I haven’t ever killed. I… I left before it came to pass.”

She could see the memories running behind those amber eyes.

Yang perched on the seat by Blake’s side. “I don’t know if this is the best time, Blake. But… you know, when you ran… I was worried I’d never see you again. I… no matter what happens, you’re my partner. I trust you. And I hope that you won’t run away again.”

A small blush crept up her partner’s face. “I don’t want to either.” She looked at the book in her hands, and the bumblebee inscribed in the cover. “I… I guess I owe you this. I like being around you. Yang, you make me feel safe, and I can’t say how glad I am that… that you want me around.” Blake shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”

They looked at each other: two women from completely different worlds. She saw a life on the run behind those golden eyes: bruises from rocks trailing up Blake’s pale arms, the curve of ribs protruding through skin, the wounded beast snarling at the predators drawing close…

Blake tilts her head and leans against Yang’s shoulder. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know.”

“I think my ego’s overdrawn, Blake.”

Her fellow student chuckled against her skin. Yang hoped she couldn’t hear the racing pulse below. “You’re smarter than you think you are, and more beautiful than you know. I’m glad you’re my partner.”

The words clump in the brawler’s throat.

“Good thing you found me in the forest, huh?” she asks, setting her hands on Blake’s thighs.

“It wasn’t exactly difficult.” She felt Blake smile. “I guess if I ever get lost, I’ll just look for you.”

Suddenly, there is too much space, and not enough space between them. Yang leaned in, breathing in the scent of bergamot tea and old books – Blake’s lips were parted, moist and hot–

Blake suddenly gripped Yang’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

Yang withdrew. “D-did I do something wrong? Is it too much?”

Her partner gently removed Yang’s hands from her thighs. “Yang, I… I think it’s best if we stay partners. I… I don’t want to ruin that.”

The golden-haired brawler slumped.

 

_“Sometimes, the people we love don’t love us back,” her father had said, his face uncharacteristically sad. “It’s okay, Yang. You will always meet people you love who don’t feel the same way for you.”_

 

“Okay,” she said, “I trust you.”

A uneasy silence fell over the room.

Yang didn't doubt that she would move on: she always found a new person to love. But at the moment, the fires ravaged her chest. As she had learned over the years, rejection stung. It was a physical pain just as much as an emotional one.

 _At least I'm not being left behind_ , she thought.

Blake undid her ribbon, letting the black cloth fall to the ground. Her ears twitched.

“I know I… I just rejected… well, if you don’t mind… I’d like you to scratch them.”

Yang reached out, then paused. “Is it okay…? I thought you didn’t want to be defined by them.”

“True.” Blake looked at Yang, warmth brimming over those amber eyes. “But in the end, it is my body. And I trust you, to see me as more than my ears. I’d like you to scratch them.”

She hesitantly touched them. The outer black fur was coarse against her fingers. Where it pinkened near the center, the fur grew more delicately, in whorls and spirals like the pattern of a sunflower's seeds.

Blake smiled. “That tickles.”

“Does it hurt when you hide them?” Yang asked.

“After a long day.” Both sets of ears twitched. “See the little hole in my right one?”

“Is that a piercing?”

“For a pin, actually, to keep the bow in place.” Blake’s face darkened momentarily. “I… I like being treated as human.”

"Well… you'll always be Blakey to me."

"I'm a little surprised you didn't make a cat pun."

Yang shrugged. "Hey, what can I say? I'm not an idiot. You're not cool with that." She grew more confident as she ran her hands over the ears. She rubbed slow circles into their base, where the fur whitened into little waves. "And if you say no, then I'm gonna listen."

Blake rumbled beneath her hands.

“Thanks, partner,” she murmured.

“Anytime, Blakey.”

 


	7. Interlude: Den of Thieves and Vipers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the criminal underworld, stupid men live briefly and die screaming. Junior is smarter than he looks. His men? Less so. 
> 
> It's just a shame that the underworld is changing.

Junior stared at his empty cup of coffee. He briefly entertained the idea of refilling it before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. 

He scanned the basement, taking in the possible escape routes. With over a dozen people planning to meet in the safe house, it would be a tight fit. If the police wanted to snag the leaders of the Arcturus Gang, tonight would be the best night. Militia and Melanie were running interference in Central Vale to draw the cops’ attention, but one could never be too careful these days.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

His underboss laughed.

“Thirty, and having a mid-life crisis already? Kid, you need a night out.” Harfang slid a fresh mug of black coffee over and took his place at the mahogany table. “The twins any good?”

A headache pulsed merrily away in Junior’s left temple.

“Harfang, your dick is the reason _why_ I’m the boss nowadays.”

The tow-headed man clapped a hand against the table. “Watch it, kiddo, or people will think you sucked me off for this job instead of fighting me.”

There were practical reasons for keeping the high-ranking member of the Valean cartels around, but Harfang was like a more belligerent Roman Torchwick. Junior would have sent Papa Bear packing long ago, if it weren’t for the man’s connections and weapons proficiency.

If you needed someone gone by nightfall, Harfang Medvedev was your man. If you needed someone to train your men to hit the broadside of a barn ( _no, he wasn’t bitter about the fight with Blondie at all_ ), Harfang was the best instructor in all of Vale. When he wasn’t whoring around.

Speaking of which…

 

“You paid out this month’s child support?”

“Done and done, boss.” Harfang withdrew a cigarette from his greatcoat. “This used to be my gang, after all. Gotta make sure it’s in tiptop shape for you.”

Junior drained his cup of coffee. “At least something’s going my way.”

Harfang flicked his lighter, and lit up. “Kid, you’ve lost weight.” He took a drag of the cigarette. “Haven’t been starving yourself over that Blondie?”

The bearded bartender snorted. “As if. Have you met Dimitry?”

The underboss laughed, the sound akin to a crypt door swinging shut. “Good to know the old coot’s good for _something_.”

“Being late, for one.” Junior checked his wristwatch – platinum plated, a vial of cyanide tucked into the mechanism, light enough to snap off his wrist should a cop attempt to grab it. “The others are here?”

“Last I saw, Misra’s little lady was entertaining them.”

“Bring them in.”

Harfang set his Scroll on the table, and swiped across the screen.

 

The door at the end of the room squeaked open. Misra’s wife entered in a swish of sandy-orange skirts, bearing a tray with five bottles of eight-year old Atlesian whiskey and twelve tumblers. Misra herself followed soon after, along with the other captains of the Arcturus gang.

“Mrs. Misra.” Junior stood and pressed a kiss to her trigger-calloused hand. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It is always my pleasure.” Mrs. Misra set out the alcohol and glasses. “I will be upstairs if you require anything else.” She pecked her wife on the cheek, and closed the door behind her.

“What’s new, boss?” Crimson asked as he sat down on a plush leather chair. New scars flowed over the Mistralian captain’s cheeks, as if they were mapping tributaries and riverbeds. “It’s pretty hard to get a ride over to… well, anywhere these days. Had to hitch a ride on a diplomat envoy to get this far." 

“Grimm attacked our train,” Kakatos said, feeling the scars visible beneath his white collar. “The Huntsmen chased them away, but we lost the cargo.”

Harfang banged his fist against the table. “Shut it. You fuckers know the drill.” He took off his right black leather glove, revealing a snarling bear skull. Its eyes burned red, as if someone had embedded a Grimm into his skin. “Do you swear on your ink?”

“Misra, West Vale Captain.” The sandy-haired woman laid her right hand on the table. Her bear skull’s eye sockets were hollow and empty.

“Shad, North Vale Captain.” The same was true for the greying man, and the captains that followed.

“Topaz, Central and South Vale Captain.”

“Crimson, Mistral Captain, liaison to the TriSuns.”

“Caramelo, South Vacuo Captain.”

“Aine, North Vacuo Captain, liason to the Desert Eagles.”

“Sonore, West Vacuo Captain.”

“Kakatos, Central Vacuo Captain.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Mr. Drama Queen, here at last,” Harfang said just barely loud enough for Junior to hear. “His kid still a vegetable?”

Junior ignored his underboss and tapped the table in response. “You’re late.”

Dimitry entered, straightening his suit jacket. Blood leaked from the side of his head. “My apologies, boss. The Elders reneged on the deal. They have allied with the White Fang.”

 

The Elders were responsible for shipping medical supplies to the Arcturus: the good stuff, like world-class surgeons. Junior gritted his teeth. It would be harder to hook Blondie in, if his doctors couldn’t give her the prosthetic arm she needed.

 

“Details, later.” Junior looked around at the assembled gangsters, meeting each gaze in turn. “None of the Atlesian Captains made it. I was assured they would be here.”

“Sorry, boss.” Aine dipped her gaze. “They got caught up in a lockdown over near the docks. The pigs got edgy, and started hauling off people for questioning.”

He sighed. “You people… all right, Dimitry, I want them out of lock-up in less than a week and their records wiped.”

“Consider it done.”

Harfang cracked the cap off a bottle of whiskey and poured Junior a glass. “Now, people, what’s going on in your sectors?”

 

“Recruitment’s down 90%,” Misra said. She brought out her Scroll and spread her fingers across the screen. “The youth aren’t raring to fight the White Fang as we thought. They’re like rabbits in their warrens.”

Topaz tipped a bottle over his tumbler, letting amber liquid fill the heavy glass. “We lost several shipments of Dust to the Grimm. The Triad and Tongs took over much of our arms routes – they killed off a whole garrison. We’re not getting back the Vale-Vacuo Fenway route anytime soon. Central Vale’s in the red again.”

“We're down a squad of Faunus. Had to cross out sixteen deserters,” Shad said, the remnants of wolf ears twitching beneath his thick hair. Harfang snorted in disgust. “They went over to the Hellbenders.”

 _Typical,_ Junior thought. _Somebody tries to help them out, and then they go and stab their helpers in the back._

“Does the cartel still follow the Thieves’ Code?” Junior asked.

Caramelo made a _gimme_ gesture at Topaz. The other man slid a tumbler of whiskey over. “Fuckers up and joined the White Fang after the breach.” Caramelo downed the alcohol. “So no, they’re not following the fucking code.”

“Nobody wants our info,” Kakatos said. “Profit’s down 50% in all of Vacuo. My men are threatening to desert.” Sonore and Aine nodded in agreement.

“The Mistralian Justicar is dead. We suspect a White Fang hit, or someone allied with them.” Crimson thumbed the bronze circlet around his wrist. “Mafias over there are going nuts. They’re slaughtering every Faunus they find.” Junior noticed Dimitry twitch at the news. He himself couldn’t muster the sympathy for either side. “And the Trisuns have gone to shit, with the coup. We haven’t made a deal since the fall of Beacon.”

“How are the mafias resolving their conflicts without the Justicar mediating?” Junior asked.

“With lots of violence and death,” Crimson said with a hint of a smile. “We could use Harfang around.”

Junior tried not to notice how excited Harfang looked at the prospect of murdering people.

"We might still need you around, Harfang," he said. "Let's hear our options first."

The reports were similar from the other captains: loss of profit, loss of men, and loss of spirit. Gang members were leaving or dying en masse. Violence won, and those who preferred to talk died. If he didn’t do something soon, Junior would be facing a revolution within his own organization.

 

Junior held up his hands. “Does anyone have any _good_ news?”

The room was silent.

“Well… we’re not dead?” Aine offered.

“Might be soon,” Caramelo said, considering his glass.

“A replacement for the CCT might be going up.” Topaz shrugged as the room turned to face the tech specialist. “Don’t know when, don’t know how, but it’ll make the meetings a lot easier.”

Sonore snorted. “Some brilliant fucker tried to send me the details of a deal by pigeon. _Pigeon_.” Laughter rippled through the room, easing the tension that had settled onto Junior’s shoulders. “And if you’re wondering, yes, some hawk ate the pigeon and we never got the message. That relay can’t come any sooner.”

“If our closest allies have turned butchers, we need damage control,” Dimitry said. “The Faunus gangs will ally with the White Fang if they don’t trust us. First off, profit. We have learned that full screen TVs – hackable ones – are not the way to go with a megalomaniac running around. A sports bar is not tenable without these screens.”

Topaz swirled his whiskey. Ice clinked against the glass. “Boss, if you want secure TVs, I could give ChrysTech a call. They typically do medical only, but I’m sure more profit would sway them.”

“The workers at the main club are feeling down,” Junior admitted. “It’s something, but it might not be enough. I’m working on getting Blondie to join us.”

Misra tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked at Dimitry. “Chief, doesn’t that break the Thieves’ Code?”

Harfang spoke up for the first time in ages. “No, kid, it doesn’t. She’s unaffiliated. If she were signed on with the Hunt, then yeah, we’d be pissing off the blue bloods. We’re good just as long as she isn’t on the record.”

Dimitry grudgingly nodded. “If we were to ally with a fully fledged Huntress like Glynda Goodwitch, then yes. We’d break the Code.”

“Not like anyone listens to that shit anymore,” Harfang said, to nods and murmurs of approval. “I mean, we got Aine and Misra,” he jerked his thumb to the two women. “Back in the old days, the best they could be is whores.”

“Instead, sir, we have you,” Aine chirped.

Harfang grinned. “I like your sass, girl. You’ll go far these days.” He pointed at Shad and Kakatos. “Those two are married – to government officials! – with kids. Old days, they would’ve been shot. The blue bloods following the Code are dying out, Junior. We better not follow them.”

“The _blue bloods_ are still drawing in profit, unlike us,” Dimitry said.

The underboss took a sip of his whiskey. “That’s easy enough. Look, kiddo, I know you don’t like dealing dirty. But there’s always good cooks in Mistral, they run up a million a batch–”

“Absolutely not,” Dimitry said, looking to Junior. “We need the support of the people, if we wish to operate without the Hunt breathing down our necks. Drugs will not endear us to them.”

“Boss, I have to say, there’s a lot more people coming to the Hellbender’s distributors.” The North Valean captain shuffled through his tablet. “Dunno, it seems like a huge cash draw. But they’re also drawing high Grimm activity.”

“I’ve seen a lot of Huntsmen around,” Topaz added. “Probably the Beacon kids. They’re the gung-ho type who never keep their noses clean.”

“If they fight us, they’re going to win,” Misra said. “We don’t have the manpower to give them the run-around.”

Junior inclined his head to Topaz. “And that is why we’re not going to deal drugs. Besides, we’re lacking recruits. We don’t have anyone to mule the goods around.”

 

Kakatos cleared his throat. “Boss, I know you don’t want to set it up at the main club, but a strip club–“

“We’ll get the pigs on our heads!” Aine rubbed her eyes. Junior had recruited the former prostitute after she strangled her pimp. She had a good head, sharp-tongued but not enough to provoke even the notoriously volatile Harfang. “Every pig ends up poking around strip clubs looking for sex slaves.”

Caramelo drained his glass of whiskey. “It’ll help the men’s morale. Pretty girls, alcohol, promise of a getaway from their problems?”

“I said a _strip club_ , not a brothel,” Kakatos said, glaring at his fellow captain. “I learned enough from your mistakes.”

Misra laughed. “What, letting the underboss near the place?”

“Hey, I paid for the damages,” Harfang said, pouring another glass. “And nobody had kids, so that’s a bonus.”

“Sir, you threw the gangster equivalent of a frat party!” Caramelo said. “Even if you could monetize that, it’s not worth the clean up.”

“Lose the stick up your ass, Caramelo, and live a little.”

Junior briefly considered banging his head against the table. His gang was led by their dicks like dogs on a leash. Wonderful. At least alcohol had loosened their tongues – normally, they would keep their ideas tucked away.

Dimitry passed him a glass of whiskey.

“Ethics aside, it’ll provide many jobs,” Shad said. Junior shot the captain a grateful look. “Not everyone can be a Huntsman or an engineer or even a construction worker. It’ll feed mouths. If we treat the girls–“

“And boys?” Crimson asked, eyebrow quirked. 

Shad rolled his eyes. “Of course, what kind of man do you take me for? We have to cover all our bases. We treat them right, protect them from the skeevy guys, and not only do we make money, but we get good rep with the public.”

Dimitry looked at Junior. “It’ll be easier in Vacuo, where there are more college students and fewer regulations. It won’t work in Atlas or Vale, not with all the Huntresses and Huntsmen around. Misra, you’ve run a club before, your thoughts?”

Her fingers played with her amber-striped tie. “I like strippers. You can take a percentage of their tips and give them a base rate. Sure, sometimes the demand is spotty, but in general, people want to see tits and ass. There’s a demand, there’s a source, I say we go for it.”

Junior rolled his shoulders. It was going to be a long day if their best idea was a strip club _._

 

“If you’re in the black, Kakatos, you have my permission to start a strip club. Just… make sure there’s no sign of Arcturus involvement. We do not need a sex slavery investigation right now.”

“It would also make recruiting Blondie harder,” Shad said. “Girl like her, I’m sure she’s heard enough about gangs to be wary.”

“Boss, is having me around not enough?” Misra asked.

Junior sighed. “You’re a good shot, Misra, there’s no denying that. But the Grimm attack took out our best men. One Ursa killed six of us. Blondie’s a Huntress, yeah, but she’s one of the best. You heard about Torchwick’s little robot toy, right? Blondie took one down on her own.” An impressed murmur ran through the room. “With power like that on our side? They won’t fear the Grimm as much. We need our people to feel safe in their own home.”

Misra nodded, but her forehead was still creased in neat lines. “I suppose.”

“All right,” Junior said, spreading his hands. “For those of us who can’t start up clubs, what could we do?”

Silence hovered over the pine table.

 

“Medical supplies…? We could smuggle them out from Vacuo, they’re dirt cheap there, and sell them on the streets here.” Caramelo tapped a finger against the table. “We’ll get the backdoor doctors, the granny down the street, set up district distributors to feed the chain. I know a lot of people can’t wait for the hospitals to treat them.”

“Are the trade routes still up?” Shad took a long draught straight from the whiskey bottle. “I thought the Grimm activity was cramping even legal trade.”

“It’s tight, yes,” Topaz said, “but the docks are still in business.”

Dimitry tapped the table. “It’s a solid idea, Junior. However, it will need a better plan for implementation.”

“We’ll set it aside, but I want you,” Junior gestured to the South Vacuoan captain, “to head the endeavor. Anyone else?”

He thought of the current issues as his men puzzled it out. There was always profit during war, always someone who needed something bought or some info that traveled along the underworld pipeline. He himself would probably end up selling more info to the Hunt. It wasn’t ideal – Huntsmen and Huntresses had no sense of honor and a bad habit of reneging on their deals – but it would tighten his connections to the government.

What did people in Vale want?

 

“Refugees,” Aine said slowly. Her pace was measured, almost if she had been waiting for this moment to speak. “There’s a lot of money in people leaving for the mega-city centers. We could guide them.”

Junior cleared his throat. “Latest info says there are more people fleeing the kingdom of Vale than traveling inside. The only way out is through the desert, or the ocean, and both are filled with Grimm. We’re set to lose a lot of men.”

“Not necessarily, boss.” Aine traced the grain of the table. “There are fewer planes flying, these days, but there’s still some. We can get people onto them. Or, if they don’t want to pay up, we can send them through land or desert.”

Harfang grinned. “I think she’s onto something, kiddo. We can smuggle them out. Crimson, how’s the market for air-travel currently?”

“Could be doing better, sir,” the Mistralian captain said. “Lots of planes grounded in the city of Hermes. People don’t want to travel out of the confines of their kingdom. The only ones flying have meds or tech on them.”

The underboss snapped his fingers. “Bingo. Because they think their kingdom’s safe. Vale’s under constant attack from those monsters, right? People want out of the city. We get them out, for a fee, and drop them off with the medical shipments. Or-“ he added, as Dimitry opened his mouth, “-we set up a rehousing program. We’ll inch some up on the actual refugee lists, and we’ll bring the rest out on some flight or other.”

Shad tapped the table with his fingers. “They have suffered a cholera epidemic in my quarter. We need to avoid spreading that disease.”

“’Course we will.” Harfang buried his nails in the table and leaned towards the Arcturus boss. “It’s all in the name of good business, kiddo.”

Junior looked to his consigliore. “Dimitry?”

“We lose business in the long run,” was all that Dimitry said. “But in the short term, it will definitely keep the Arcturus afloat.”

Harfang leaned back, looking satisfied. “Of course it will. We’ve got the product, the customers, and best of all, it’s mostly legal.”

“Aine, Valean Captains, you’re in charge of this. Report back to me when you have a plan,” Junior said. Aine nodded and immediately began typing on her Scroll. “All right, let’s wrap–“

Dimitry cleared his throat. “There’s one last thing on the agenda. We must consider how to deal with the White Fang.”

 

A tired groan filled the room.

“Can we just pretend they don’t exist?” Kakatos asked. “They’re raising hell in my sector, muscling in on the Sangfroid territory, selling the hard stuff and getting the human kids hooked. Maybe if we just ignore them, they’ll piss off another group who’ll deal with them.”

Dimitry looked to his boss. “We are a mostly human organization. The Faunus-affiliated gangs will most likely ally with the White Fang. Staying neutral or allying with the humans may mark us as an enemy of the White Fang. Allying with the White Fang, however, is headed for disaster.”

“Right… never join up with the crazy freedom fighters,” Junior mused. “Kakatos, they’ve got plantations or labs?”

“I don’t know, sir, my scouts haven’t reported anything out of the ordinary. If I had to guess, I would say the hard stuff is imported from Atlas.”

Junior quickly flicked through the trade routes. Valean Gold was currently priced more than actual gold per kilogram; it seemed citizens needed a getaway from current events. (Or, self-medication. He couldn’t exactly blame them, when most hospitals had wait-lists of up to six months.) Barbs had increased in price per gram by seventeen percent and were increasing tensions between its Mistralian sources and Valean donkeys. Neither were remotely considered “hard stuff.”

“How hard are we talking?” he asked.

“If they want a sector gone, it’s usually crack or bad moonshine. We lost the entire Red Sea quarter to spiked crack.” Kakatos closed his eyes, stretching the scar across his temples. “Meth’s making a comeback in the rural parts. Opium’s up there too.”

“They need a lab, then.” Junior pulled out his Scroll. “How’s the trade in your sectors?”

Caramelo shrugged. “We catch the occasional mule. Other than that, you’ve already seen our books, boss.”

The other Vacuoan captains nodded in agreement.

“They could have a base in old Mantle territory.” Shad poured one last glass of whiskey. “Brings them in close quarters with the Grimm, but if the invasion’s taught us anything, it’s that the White Fang are cozying up to those monsters.”

“Enough talk.” Harfang slammed his fist into the table. “I say we go after the lot and wipe them out. We got the firepower, we got the men, we have everything in place. They’re bringing Grimm into the city, they’re the source of this trouble. We wipe them out, and we’re as good as the heroes here.”

“Boss, I have a thousand and one reasons why that wouldn’t work,” the West Vacuo captain said.

Junior inclined his head. “Speak, Sonore.”

“It’ll send the wrong message to the people back in Vacuo. There’s a huge recruitment drive for the White Fang right now. The recent crackdown on Faunus activity here has only stoked the fire.”

“The Mistralian mafia’s indiscriminate murders will not help matters,” Dimitry said dryly.

 

Junior considered it. “We’ll stay out for now,” he said. “I don’t want to tangle with politics anymore than I have to.”

Aine looked up, eyes sparkling. “The CCT relay’s up. It might be a private one, mainly for government, but I’m in. Thank your wife for me, Shad.”

"That's not a corruption joke, is it?"

“And?” Junior tapped the table. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

“I’ve made some arrangements,” she said. “Tomorrow, the Vacuoan convoy will land, bearing medical supplies and extra doctors. It’s going back with a load of Atlesian Paladin scrap. A shipment of refugees – twelve at most – can go with them. I am happy to report they are all set to go.”

“You had fifteen minutes at most,” Misra said, raising an eyebrow. “How did you get it so fast?”

Aine grinned, like a shark that had just tasted blood.

“I may have talked to the right people, gotten a handle on the situation, set things up in advance.”

“Is that why you requested permission to visit my territory?” Shad shook his head. “Should’ve known it wasn’t just a friendly visit.”

“Hey, I love your wife’s lasagna. You knew I’d swing by sometime.”

Dimitry muttered something like _incorrigible_ at the youngest captain. “Shad, Aine, if you have any real concerns, please settle them elsewhere,” he said.

Junior made a note to promote Aine to her kingdom’s director, if her plan worked.

“If that’s all, we are done for the night.” He gloved his right hand. “I expect good news soon, brothers.”

His underlings nodded to their boss, and filed out.

 

Dimitry stayed behind.

“Is something wrong, Dimitry?” Junior asked as he pulled on his suit jacket. He grimaced at the grimy feel. He’d have to ask Militia for a fresh one back at her home. “I’m due at the twins’ tonight. I don’t want them to worry.”

“The Underworld is changing, Junior,” his consigliore said, frown lines creasing aged skin. “Criminals didn’t use to ally with politicians and terrorists like this.”

“Don’t I know it, old man. Did you want to tell me anything useful?”

Dimitry twisted his hands. The light shone off the thick scars and the caked blood on the side of his neck.

“We were allied with Torchwick once,” he said. “And then we broke it off. Torchwick is dead. But he was still allied with the White Fang at the time of his death.”

“So?”

“The Elders think we killed Torchwick.”

Junior sucked in a breath. “I didn’t hear about this.”

“It was at today’s meeting. I didn't want to panic the rest, not when moral is so low.” Dimitry took a deep breath. “Junior. The White Fang will attack _us_ soon.”

“Do you have a date?”

“Tomorrow.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to vase and TheRedPearl for their feedback on this series!


	8. Part 2: Anger : Phoenix, Firebird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difference between a phoenix and a firebird is that one is born from the ashes, and the other reduces the world to ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yang still dreams, deep in the depths of last night's grappa, of the weapon she built before setting out to kill Adam Taurus.

Metal sang against metal, sending sparks scattering over Signal’s weapon workshops. Her arm shook with the effort of keeping the band of Dust-infused steel steady as the machine pounded the glowing ingot flat, but Yang did her best. If she weren’t missing an arm, it would have been just like the old days when Yang first forged Ember Celica. 

Her father flicked the switch, and the hammer paused mid-smash. Yang lifted the glowing band and dropped into an oil bath. Acrid smoke rose from the oil’s shimmering surface. Sparks danced along the metal’s gold-hued surface.

All was going to plan.

 

“Just this bit, and then we can start putting this together,” she said.

Taiyang motioned at the blueprints tacked onto the blackboard. Brand new silver lines were drawn over the faded white Ember Celica’s original design. Uncle Qrow had signed off this design when she first created it, his signature a messy scribble in the bottom right corner.

“I talked to Professor Alak. She says we won’t be able to connect it directly to your nervous system without Atlesian technology. Best we can do is a harness,” Taiyang motioned along his chest and arms, where leather straps would go, “and an implant. Or, we can connect it at the shoulder, and use actuators to power it. First one is risky and super-expensive, but you can use all of Ember Celica’s forms. Second one can’t survive being bashed around, but you could invest in long-distance firepower.”

Yang drew the iron from its oil bath and set it on a piece of chipboard on the drill’s worktable. “Dad, at this rate, it’s probably easier to glue a club to my right arm.” She thought briefly of Junior, and the rocket club he wielded. “We could even stick a rocket launcher on there.”

Her father frowned. “We have learned that close combat isn’t the way to go with _Niulang_. A glorified baseball bat won’t help us.”

 _Niulang_. Cowherd. Their codename for Adam Taurus.

“Hey, if he chops a bat off,” Yang waved the nub of her right arm. Her left arm was busy marking off an X on the soon-to-be hole, “at least I won’t go batty like last time.”

Taiyang clicked his tongue in appreciation.

“Bad puns aside,” her father put a hand to his heart and looked affronted, “I’ve decided on the shoulder connection. I’ve talked with Professor Lambert, and he agrees the recoil won’t place too much strain on my bones.”

Taiyang looked over the already forged pieces lying on the table. “And heat dispersal? Are you good with these heat sinks?”

“Yup, can change’em with my left just fine.” Yang clamped the thin metal sheet to the worktable. “All that’s left is to put Ember Celica 2.0 together.”

“What can I do?”

“Could use some oil while I drill.” The golden haired brawler spun the wheel – once upon a time, she could use both hands as her father had taught her – and the drill bit descended towards the metal.

Taiyang took up an oilcan. He passed the thin spout over the tip of the drill bit. The dull metal shone with the lubricating substance. “Ready?”

Yang pressed the switch. The drill bit slowly got up to speed as she brought it down on the metal. Dull gold shavings curled away from the impact zone. Taiyang added more oil to the drill bit as the tip disappeared into the steel. She felt the metal jump, and then the drill bit go down easier, as she reached the chipboard.

Her father brought out a dustpan and brush as she released the wheel and turned it off. He cleared the shavings away and inspected the hole. 

“You’re using the 1/8 inch bit?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s a little small, but this is just a mock up.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. It won’t replace my arm.”

 

“Sounding a little down, sunshine.”

“Dad, I lost my fucking arm.” She clenched her inexistent fist. Somehow, her brain still registered the feel of warm skin closing on skin. “I know it’s been a while. I can still feel something here,” she waved the nub of her right arm, “but I know it’s gone. Team RWBY is gone. Nothing is the same.” Yang looked over the golden pieces scattered over the table. Long ago, she could have put them together on her own. “And I know you should be marking exams right now, and I should be grateful that you’re helping me, but I never wanted this to happen! I didn’t become a Huntress for… for this…”

Taiyang set down the pan and brush, and hugged her.

“Oh, sunshine.” 

“Why me?” She closed her eyes. “Why not someone who deserved this? Why not Mercury, or Adam… I shouldn’t wish harm on them. It’s just not fair.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Silence hung over the workshop.

 

“We could stop the weaponized arm idea,” he suggested. “Your insurance can pay for a simple prosthetic arm. Nothing special, not when trade to Patch is still down, but it’s something.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “It’s… Dad, I want to go back to the old days. I know I can’t. I know it’s impossible. But I can’t stand – a prosthetic arm is just a hunk of metal and plastic. I want… it doesn’t matter what I want. It won’t change anything.”

They stood in silence. Outside of the weapons workshop, she could hear the clash of swords against staffs and the song of gunfire. It seemed an eternity that she had once been on Signal’s training fields, facing off against her father, gauntlets held aloft and ready to take the blow of his axes. She had come back to the place where it all began: not triumphantly, not lauded as a Huntress in her prime and a hero, but a broken bird who attacked her fellow Huntsman for no real reason.

“What can I do?” she asked, withdrawing from her father’s arms. "What good is a Huntress who can't fight?"

Her father shrugged. “Don’t ask me, my MO is to get angry and then bake bread.”

“You’ve seen me cook. I won’t be opening a bakery any time soon.”

“There’s always the getting angry part.” Taiyang scratched his head. “Although, to be fair, when I get _too_ angry or upset, I transform into a dragon. Who knows? Maybe you haven’t unlocked your Semblance’s true potential yet, and all this is just a build-up for you to find your final form.”

Yang picked up what would be the elbow piece of her new, weaponized arm. “…That is some comic book bull.”

“Just throwing ideas out there, sunshine.”

She snorts. “Typical teacher.”

Her father placed a hand on his heart. “I got that enough from your uncle, don’t you start too.”

The elbow piece dug into Yang’s skin.

 

“They left,” she said slowly.

Her father winced. He never liked discussing those who had gone.

A slow flame begins to seethe within her. For all that she had done for her companions, they couldn’t even be damned to say goodbye.

“They left. They went without me, and they never said a word.” She dropped the metal onto the workbench. “Well, that’s fine. I don’t need them.”

“Sunshine…”

She gripped the workbench. “It’s okay, dad. I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna make a life without them, and I’ll be happy, once _Niulang_ is gone. I don’t need _them_ to be happy.”

A flash of pain flickered over her father’s face, but Taiyang eventually nodded.

“All right, sunshine. Do you need me to do anything–“

“I’ll do it on my own, dad.” She picked up the curved surface of Ember Celica’s sliding guard and placed it in a vice grip. “I’m going to learn to do this on my own.” She slid the model forearm underneath the guard. “You don’t need to hold my hand.”

Yang knew that tonight, she would cry over her words and beg for her friends back to the night sky. But in the furnace heat of the weapons workshop, she burned with anger.

She picked up a hammer, and began to beat the sliding guard into its final form.

 

 


	9. Lock and Load

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line between a Huntress and a criminal is thin indeed.

Yang awakes to screaming and the crackle of gunfire. She’s halfway out of the bed, pinning Ember Celica against the sheets and jamming her arm within, before she realizes that the fight is not in her room. The sounds come from a street away, well out of sight even if she poked her head through the window.

She slumps, still tangled in the same fern-patterned sheets. She blinks hard. Golden light streams through the windows, the midday sun high in the sky. An acrid, vinegar taste lingers on her tongue.

It was hard when she first arrived, seeing the city she knew and loved in ruins. Two weeks later, the golden haired brawler has become accustomed to the Grimm attacks that plague Vale.

( _“On your toes!” Shards of ice peppered the tree she was perched on. Yang yelped and leapt for the next bit of shelter, but Weiss was faster. The Heiress twirled Myrtenaster and set a gust of wind straight into Yang’s gut. “We can’t go out like Coco and Yatsuhashi! Look for your enemy!”_ )

Yang curls her hands into fists. Weiss left without a word. The brawler knows just as much about the Heiress’s whereabouts as her sister or _her_. For all Yang knows, Weiss is lifeless in a hospital somewhere.

She takes a deep breath. Insurance will cover most of her father’s bills, and the meager savings she has left will do the rest. For a time, anyways. She briefly wonders why the Hunt or a group of concerned citizens haven’t stepped up with a collection fund. Then again, these days people are just as likely to throw others to the Grimm as they are to help someone else. They probably have bigger issues on hand than one, nearly brain-dead Huntsman on life support.

What does she have left? Until now, Yang has always belonged to _something:_ her family, her group of friends, her identity as a Huntress. Her friends are dead or missing, her family is missing or brain-dead, and there is little room in this world for a Huntress who cannot fight.

 

More shots pepper the air. Yang instinctively ducks. They’re close.

Something metallic and heavy clatters against the asphalt.

Yang pushes the blinds back and peeks over the windowsill.

A young Faunus – black haired, long gossamer wings trailing from her back – sprints down the street below. Three members of the White Fang, their swords gleaming in the midday sun, chase after her. Their guns lie scattered on the pavement behind them.

“Get back here!” one yells, swiping at the girl’s back. “You can’t run, traitor!”

“Get her! She’ll give everything away!” another says, swiping at her outstretched arm.

Blood sprays from the wound. She screams and staggers, but keeps running.

 

Yang is frozen in place at the windowsill. She sees history repeating.

 

( _“Bumblebee!” Ruby cried. Yang saw Blake’s long mane of inky hair, streaming behind her shoulders as she threw out Gambol Shroud – Yang caught hold. Blake began to swing her weapon and for one weightless moment, Yang was as light as a swallow caught on the breeze_.)

 

Summoned by the girl's fear like a moth to a flame, an Ursa charges out of a nearby alley.

The Faunus girl vaults over the Grimm’s head. The Ursa’s bone spikes puncture her dragonfly wings. Her wings ripple and tear, shreds of gossamer tissue floating in her wake. Yang can hear the moaning and the pained breaths.

 

( _-Beacon was burning, she passed by the limp bodies of Shade students and the bloodied remains of Haven Huntsmen–_ )

 

The Ursa skids to a stop. Its white-skulled head considers the White Fang henchmen. Then it rears onto its hind legs. Foot-long claws gouge the pavement. The beast turns, and chases after the girl.

She limps now, blood trailing from the remains of her wings. Her head is bowed, as if she has accepted her fate.

The earth seems to heave below the golden brawler.

 

(– _the red blade sunk deep into Blake’s gut – “GET AWAY FROM HER!”–_ )

 

The Huntress might have started her training in search of adventure, but she has never forgotten what Weiss said in the ruins of Mountain Glenn.

Yang opens the window. She cocks Ember Celica, and fires.

 

Six bullets punch neat holes through the Ursa’s skull mask. It cracks, a large chunk over the eye falling off entirely. The beast groans, and turns towards the members of the White Fang.

The girl doesn’t waste a second: she darts off the street and out of sight.

Yang ducks below the windowsill, before the henchmen can see her. Without a second hand, she only has ten more bullets in her gauntlet.

 

(– _“Let your enemy fight amongst themselves,” Taiyang said, rapping the simulation board with a knuckle. “Save your energy, and let them take each other down_.”)

 

Blood-curdling screams fill the air. Flesh rends, wet and sickening. She can hear guts slithering onto the street, only to squish under massive paws.

_I should feel guilty. I should feel responsible for their deaths. So… why don’t I feel anything?_

She pops up to scan the street. One henchman lies dead, guts littering the street like spilled salsa. The Ursa cuts down another henchman with a massive paw. Bones shatter beneath the blow. It rumbles and turns to the last.

_Should I let him live?_

Yang props her gauntlet-laden arm against the windowsill. She steadies it, and takes aim.

The bullet punches through the Ursa’s neck.

Black ooze sprays from the wound, drenching the henchman’s face. The Ursa roars and lunges forward. It seizes the henchman around the waist with its massive jaws.

Yang unloads Ember Celica, peppering every inch of black fur visible, but to no avail. The Ursa’s bone-plated head tosses the Faunus back and forth. When it finally dissolves into black goo, the henchman lies lifeless in the streets.

 

She stumbles back from the windowsill, slumping against the bed. The same high she gets from soaring through the air courses through her system, igniting sparks of Aura here and there.

Is she a murderer now, by proxy?

 _You nearly got your dad killed_ , a tiny voice inside her head whispers.

_I didn't mean to.  
_

_You're the reason he's nearly brain-dead. This is all you're good for. Killing Grimm, killing people… you got that same high from watching that man die._

Yang suddenly feels nauseous. Killing a man - even indirectly - shouldn't feel as good as killing a Grimm.

  
 

The apartment door clicks open. Yang rustles through her clothes and draws out an ammo belt. She pins the still-hot metal of the gauntlet between her thighs, and pries open the gauntlet’s magazine. Her skin screams in protest, but she bites on her lip and holds back a whine. Slowly, cartridge by cartridge, she reloads her weapon.

At last, Ember Celica is loaded.

She listens carefully. There’s scuffling in the living room, fabric hissing against the hardwood floors. Metal clacks against a desk. It’s heavy, like a gun. There are two other metallic clicks, but these are higher pitched, more like a safe being opened than a weapon being reloaded.

Yang carefully creeps down the hallway filled with pictures of someone else’s life. She readies Ember Celica.

 

“Hey there, Blondie.” Junior looks up from a first aid kit set on the desk, unrolling a length of gauze between his hands. His bare chest is covered in a myriad map of tattoos: human skulls, swords, an ornate cross, and others whose blue-black ink is blurred to the point of illegibility. The drawers of the desk are open, revealing a set of white shirts and black vests. “Heard the gunfire. I don’t need more holes, thanks.”

She lowers her weapon, but only just. “You met the White Fang outside?”

Junior gives her a tight grin. “Ran into one of your little Huntress buddies.” He raises his hand and checks the wound. “She asked a couple of things. Wasn’t happy with my answer. Beat the shit out of me.”

The words, _sorta reminded me of you_ , float unsaid.

She thinks of her father, fishing out bandages from the first aid kit under the sink, and wrapping up the wound in Raven’s side. Raven – not her mother, not after the death trap that woman led her father into.

 

The fire that comes from facing death transforms: she knows these patterns, as familiar as the beat of her heart. This is the wrapping of knuckles and the splits gingerly tied to broken legs. This is something she can do.

Her training kicks in.

“How deep is the wound?” she asks, taking out the alcohol wipes from the first aid kit. 

“Inch and a half." Junior probes the wound. "Bitch used her fucking handbag, felt like she shanked me.”

Coco. Yang breathes in deep, old familiarity scratching at her sides.

“You should go to the hospital.”

Junior laughs harshly. Blood dribbles from his chin. “And then what? Wait ten hours and end up bleeding out in the ER? They’re packed, Blondie. I’m better off here.” He lifts his hand, and checks. “Still bleed–“

“Hand back on, until the bleeding stops. I can’t bandage until then.” She drops the alcohol wipes and presses his gloved hand back against the wound. “Anything I should know?”

Junior nods at his belt. “Flask there. I need a drink.”

“I’m not touching your pants, Junior. My hands need to be clean.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are we talking sanitary reasons, or squeamish reasons?”

“Sure. Because I haven’t spent enough time in the hospital watching people die.”

“All right, all right, point taken.” The bearded bartender unclips the flask with his free hand. “You Huntresses are all the same, you know?”

Yang pins the alcohol wipes against the desk with her hip, and tears them open.

"What did she want?" 

Her companion shrugs. “The usual. Info on the city, on the White Fang. Blames my kind for this damn invasion.” Junior drains the flask. “As if I’d deliberately trigger a fucking war. There’s no business for me these days! But no, that uppity Huntress just bulldozes her fucking way – no wonder people don’t trust Beacon students anymore.”

 

Yang presses her lips together. Junior hisses as she daubs the alcohol pad along the edges of his wound.

“You’re running out of options, Blondie.” The man looks like he has lived for a thousands years, and watched thousands more slip through his fingers. “Everyone’s running out of time. Sooner or later, they’ll be looking for another scapegoat.”

“What else can I do, Junior?” She winds the gauze around his torso. “I’ve given my heart and soul to become a Huntress. Lost an arm and my family in turn. At this rate, I’m only good enough to be a scapegoat.”

The bartender doesn’t say anything.

Yang tapes the gauze in place, and begins to clean up the mess.

“You know… that’s how a lot of people end up at the club.” He clears his throat. “Not saying you have to join or anything. But you, and me, we’re leftovers. Not many people pay attention to us. But when we put our minds to it… we’re goddamn dangerous.” 

“Lovely. Another chance for me to die, as every Huntress has in history?”

“What do you want, Yang? Power? The club’s a hub for everyone you would ever need to know.” He drums his fingers along the flask. “Intel? Alcohol makes every tongue loose. Family?”

Yang looks down.

 She can almost see the triumphant grin that must be crawling up Junior's face.

“We don’t share blood, but we have each other’s backs. You mess with one of us, you mess with the entire gang.” Junior lifts a shirt out of the drawer and gingerly pulls it on, hissing at the movement. “That’s what awaits you, if you work for me.”

She thinks of a rose bud girl, fresh with the blush of spring, gone to Dust-knows-where when the first snow hit.

The golden brawler opens her mouth to answer, but the apartment door bursts open, clattering against the wall.

 

Junior seizes his gun – Yang readies Ember Celica – but it is not a White Fang henchman or a Grimm that springs into the living room.

Dimitry limps in. Blood, dark tar and grey matter spatter his face. His slate-grey suit is torn in fifteen places, long strips hanging off his body like a skin peeling off a snake’s body. A massive pistol, its sides decorated in scrolling leaves, peeks out of his waistband.

“You were supposed to be at the docks,” Junior says, lowering his gun.

“Change of plans.” Dimitry sits heavily on the sofa, almost knocking over a potted fern. “White Fang blew it up.”

“Motherfucker.” Junior opens up more drawers. He pulls out another pistol, decorated in the same way as Dimitry’s; a length of cheesewire; he pulls on a handle and a compartment hiding a machete unfolds. “Who’s hurt?”

“Aine’s dead. Shipful of refugees dead.” Dimitry clutches his chest. “Club. Needs help.”

Junior’s face is hard. He buckles his weapons into place. “They hit the club?”

“Grimm,” Dimitry rasps. “Not just White Fang. They brought Grimm.” He looks straight at Yang. “Please… so many dead, please help us…”


	10. A Bonfire for a Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She burns.

The street before the club is a mess of shot-up cars and bodies splattered across the asphalt – club workers in their matte-black suits, but no civilians by the looks of it. The only sirens Yang hears are far off in the distance, where a plume of smoke still hangs over the ocean like a vengeful specter.

The screaming is much louder than the sirens.

“Shoot the Grimm, not me!”

“You’re too close! Get up here!”

“He’s dead, he’s dead, leave him there!”

“Dimitry! Get the injured out and let Blondie do her job!” Junior says. He takes cover behind the door, unholsters his handgun, and starts shooting at the Grimm invaders.

Yang steps over several bodies as she surveys her prey.

Four Ursas the size of cars rampage across the dance floor, tearing through the fighters who couldn’t get away. Henchmen line the balconies, their guns blazing. The Ursas soak up the bullets without even a flinch.

Beowolves dart amongst the glass columns like minnows between reeds. For every one that Junior’s men take down, another solidifies out of the dust caking mirrored floor.

The main danger comes from the pair of King Taijitsu, who slide in and out of the fire escapes all around the club. They don’t appear often, but when they do, another henchmen disappears screaming into their maw.

“Watch and learn,” she says, and slams her fist into her gut.

Fire flows through her veins.

 

Yang charges at the Grimm, a force of nature given mortal form. Though she doesn’t have her father’s berserker rage, adrenaline powers through her veins like the world’s best drug.

She swings at a Beowolf, knocking it into the pillar. She makes to follow up with a second punch – realizing a bit too late that she only has one arm when a second Beowolf lunges from the side.

The brawler drops to the bloodied ground. Festering jaws pass harmlessly overhead. She pushes up from the dance floor, and kicks out. Her boot connects with the beast’s side, crushing the bone spikes protruding from its hips. Yang’s feet land squarely on the floor. She punches another Beowolf under the chin, Ember Celica bursting through its throat as it dissipates – and with a quick flip and a swing of her arm, another Grimm bites the dust.

“I’ve missed this,” she whispers, and it’s true: there is nothing complicated about fighting Grimm, even when she’s missing a hand. It’s nothing like fighting a human being – or a monster masquerading as a Faunus.

The Grimm turn their attention to the golden brawler. She raises her hand, and beckons them on.

An Ursa, back white with bony plates, charges forward.

She is hell on Remnant, she is grace: she is nature’s wrath given physical form. Yang charges forward and drives her fist into the Ursa’s maw: she can almost hear it whimper around her mouth. Ember Celica fires down its gullet. The round pierces through the back of the head. The Ursa roars, giving her enough time to yank out her fist and cave in the skull plate.

Her fist dives down, past gooey darkness that her Aura burns away, but she can feel the slickness of death that follows these creatures.

 

(– _“Get down!_ ” _Blake shouted, dropping in front of Yang – the Beowolf reared onto its rear legs and prepared to strike – Gambol Shroud darted through the beast’s midsection, cutting it neatly in two–_ )

 

Yang leaps back, but not fast enough. A Beowolf’s claws shred through her side, sending thin ribbons of blood flying through the air.

The Grimm are thick around her, circling her like sharks that have tasted blood in the water. Yang can feel the frenzy in the air, something from the primal days, when man had only his fists to fight these demons. Her blood pulses hot in her veins. Both predator and prey can taste the fear in the air – not their own, but the unwary caught in the crossfire.

This is a dance as old as the blood that flows through her veins and the moon’s cracked face, and she knows its paces well.

Her Aura flares, and she burns. The wound seals shut, cauterized by the heat of her soul’s power.

Ember Celica clicks into place. She unloads her magazine into the Grimm surrounding her. The Grimm shriek as bullets embed themselves in heartless bodies and rend their bodies back into dust. Some fall – other stay, but Yang leaps up into the air and kills the ones who failed to die when it was their time.

Her fists pound away at the Grimm. She drops, she leaps, she side steps and pivots on the heel of her boots – the Grimm barely scratch her, but every wound on her body merely hastens their defeat.

The last Beowolf dissipates, but those Grimm are weak, with only sheer number on their sides.

“Get the Ursas!” She picks herself up from the floor, breathing hard. Yang’s faintly aware of the machine gun fire to her left refocusing on an Ursa rampaging around the room. “The Taijitsu are mine!”

“HELP ME!” someone screams. His voice dies into a wet gurgle as white scales sweep out from a doorway. Yang barely sees the flash of a red tie before it’s consumed by a gaping maw. The maw’s owner uncoils on the dance floor, triangular head swaying to an invisible beat.

 

(–“ _triangular heads mean the snake’s poisonous,” her father said, holding up the trap. The snake’s limp body swayed below the trap’s metal jaws. “-Cut off the head, and bury it. Its bite is still poisonous after death–_ “)

 

“Taijitsu come in pairs!” Junior says. “Distract the black one, it’s here somewhere!”

“Cut off the head,” Yang murmurs, “got it, dad.”

Yang runs up a mirrored column. She jumps off and lands along the snake Grimm’s back. It writhes, oak trunk-thick body undulating like a vine caught in the wind.

Her boots slip off the smooth scales.

The golden brawler lands heavily on the dance floor. A massive coil of body slides over her body, crushing her chest with its weight.

“Yang!” Junior cries.

She grits her teeth. Yang draws pained breaths – something is broken, and it’s all because she was careless. It happened at Beacon. It almost got her father killed.

It won’t happen again today.

Her Semblance kicks into overdrive.

It’s a strange feeling, to have aching pain convert immediately into energy that soars through her veins. It’s not like doing Jagerbombs: there is no alcohol to dull the energy drink’s buzz. It’s more like sticking her fingers into an electric socket.

“Not losing to you, fucker,” she spits.

She punches up. The loop of body shoots towards the ceiling, knocking a spotlight loose. Glass shatters as the spotlight lands squarely on the white Taijitsu’s head.

“Shoot it!” she says.

Bullets occasionally sing past her arms, some scoring her skin in a quick snap of sharp heat, but the bloodlust screams in her ears and drowns out the pain. She hammers her fists into the beast’s spine. Bone after bone shatters beneath her hands. Yang works her way up the body, to the head – at some point, the bullets stop, but she doesn’t notice.

Yang yanks a long fang from the beast. It screeches and tries to move away, but the broken bones immobilize it. She sets the fang in a bullet hole between its eyes, and punches down.

The white Taijitsu goes limp.

She just barely hears the hissing before its mate strikes, but she’s ready – she catches the beast by a fang, tears that off and throws it down the black Taijitsu’s maw. The beast dives down – she jumps up and stamps on its head. This time, she works her way down from the head. The occasional bone plate pierces through her boots as it shatters.

Yang shakes off the pain and continues breaking vertebrae.

At some point, the black Taijitsu dies. Yang feels it go beneath her hand. Its white mate has already dissipated.

She turns, and surveys the wrecked club.

The only Grimm left is an Ursa too stupid to run.

Well, to run away.

The beast lowers its head, and charges towards her.

Yang takes a stance – plants her feet, centers her weight, raises her fists and lets the fire consume her.

Claws clack against the broken glass.

Ten feet. Eight feet.

She winds up the punch.

Five feet. Three feet.

She can smell the rotting flesh dripping from its maw.

Two feet.

“And that’s for Blake!” she screams, and drives her fist between the Ursa’s eyes.

The Grimm’s head explodes beneath her fist.

Yang drops to the club floor, and kicks the headless body away. It dissipates before it can hit a stunned survivor.

Silence falls.

“That’s it?” Yang asks, looking around. “Any more of them?”

 

“Don't know. Aurelia, check the club. Harfang, go with him, and clear out any survivors,” Junior says, the barest hint of a quiver in his voice. He comes out from behind the door. Aurelia and Harfang nod, reload their weapons, and start off into the depths of the club. “Noir, get started on the wounded. I want a siterep from you, Dimitry, by the time the men are done.”

A henchman lowers his machete, shoulders shaking. “Holy crap.” The machete clatters onto the blood-soaked floor. “Boss, I’m… I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” He nods to her. “Thanks for saving our lives, but… I’m done. I didn’t sign up to fight monsters.”

“They’re not that bad,” Yang says. “Hell, I could teach you–“

The man waves her off. His golden hair is sweat-matted and streaked with Grimm goo. “I’m done. I’m not a Huntsman. I’ll hand in my resignation later, boss.”

He limps off.

The club is silent, but for the groans of the wounded and the tinkle of crushed glass under leather loafers.

Yang looks around. She thinks she should feel a little bit shy, surrounded by men she knows deal in some of Vale’s dirtiest business. But this… with Grimm essence dissipating on her hands, and blood leaking down her sides… this begins to feel oddly like home.

The golden brawler doesn’t know if she likes the thought. For all of Junior’s unscrupulous doings, she knows his men do far worse. But that’s why she went to him, when she wanted to find her mother. He had the connections to get things done. Only crime could get you those sorts of networks.

And isn’t that why she came to Vale? She had unfinished business.

 

“Hey, Yang was it?” a henchman asks as he walks past, broom in hand.

“Yeah.”

“Come by any time the club’s open. Your drinks are on me.”

“Are you going already?” This henchman sits by his fallen brother’s side, “Have a drink or dinner with us. It’s the least we owe you.”

Yang looks at the bodies scattered across the club floor. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

One henchman, blood dripping down the side of his face, shrugs. “Well… I’m not a Huntsman, but apparently Grimm are attracted by fear?” He looks at the corpses, forehead creasing in grief-stricken lines. “And… well, if we go, who’s left to remember our brothers? Gotta celebrate their lives.”

“There’s no police or ambulance coming?”

To her surprise, the crowd of henchmen laugh, though there is an undercurrent of sadness in their voices.

“For us?” The speaker grins and wipes the blood off his face. “That’s really kind of you, Yang, but they’ve never cared about us.”

“They’ve got bigger priorities,” another says, her voice dripping with exhaustion. She presses her hand to the hole in her left shoulder. “Handling the sitch at the docks, I’d bet.”

“Thanks for the hand, Blondie,” Junior says, coming up behind her. A first aid kit swings from one hand. “Police only come if the club’s open for business. Who cares if we get killed? They don’t. We take care of each other because there’s no one else.”

Dimitry looks up from one of the bodies. His hands pull a bloodied tie tight around the man’s calf. “Junior, Rougeon will bleed out before the doctors arrive.”

Junior gets onto his knees and opens up the kit. “You could make a difference, Blondie.” He ties off a length of elastic above the wound. There’s a lot of people who need you.”

She looks around the crowd, at the hope alighting in wearied eyes, at the fear that lingers in those bloodied faces even though the last of the Grimm are mere dust in the wind now.

 

 _Do you remember the old stories, sunshine?_ she remembers from her father’s knee. His finger would trail along the words of the worn storybook pages. ‘ _When Pandora opened the jar, all the evil and fear and the Grimm infected the world_. _But she closed the jar, and kept hope in.’ That’s why we fight. We keep the fire burning, so others may still hope._

 

Yang crouches beside him and studies the wound.

“Need a hand, Junior?” she asks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: not actual criminal Yang, and the introduction of Faunus gangs!


	11. Paperwork and Pencil Pushers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues on, but the city of Vale is changing

Rose-tinted light drifts into Dimitry’s office. It floats around the letters painted onto the window, spelling out _Berylov and Associates, Inc._ on the jet-black desk before Yang. Outside, cars rattle down the cobblestones and the burble of people float past the glass. Vale is no longer a silent city, after the police have lifted the week-long lockdown. The streets breathe once more, danger and life on every puff of hot air from the subway system.

Vale is a stranger place these days. Like a deer, every hair on end, eyes focused on the gun in its hunter’s hands. Huntsmen walk every road, fingers twitching on their triggers. Gang members, identifiable by the face and neck tattoos – walk in plain day. At night, it is chaos who rules the city. Soldiers and mercenaries walk night shift civilians from their jobs to their homes. Riots break out in the city square. The police hunt down every trace of White Fang sympathizers and drag them out into the light of dawn. Yang has often woken up to the pop-crackle of gunfire outside her window.

And yet a strange sense of normality has returned. Yes, people may occasionally set City Hall on fire, and there’s always the danger of turning up dead in the harbor. But people still go to work at 9 and come home at 5, unless a Grimm has breached the city barriers. Nobody quite knows who rules this city now: it could be the Hunt, it could be the White Fang, it could even be the Grimm. But whoever it is, Vale is apathetic at best.

Then again, Beacon has been a nest of Grimm for months. There was plenty of time for a city to evolve apathy.

 

“-don’t currently have any housing openings,” Dimitry says. “You’ll have to stay at 304-82 Snow Lane – your current lodgings, my apartments – until a spot opens up. I estimate roughly two months until then.”

“Got it,” Yang says.

The elder man organizes the employment and payment papers into a neat stack. He passes them to Yang, and turns to face his boss.

Junior plucks a gold-plated pen from the table. The bearded bartender is still a bit cut-up, but a week has helped his injuries immensely. He slouches next to the desk: one arm resting against the back of Dimitry’s swivel chair and the other slack against his side, scarlet tie loose around his neck.

“Any questions about your employment?” he asks.

“Yeah. How can I be sure that you’ll follow through?” Yang shifts through the documents one last time. She has spent the last four hours reading through them, but it never hurts to look for loopholes when dealing with criminals. “You’re offering me a lot here.”

“What about a good faith gesture, Blondie? I’ll grant you one favor – one,” Junior holds up a finger, “with conditions, mind. Anything you want, if I can do it. You need someone gone? I’m on it. Want a new bike? I’ve got it.”

“See, stuff like that is kinda sketchy, Junior. It sounds more like a ploy to get me into a prostitution ring.”

“It comes with the territory. That stuff sounds way less threatening when I'm wearing a t-shirt.” Junior spreads his hands. “Rest assured, a man like me never backs down on his promises.”

Dimitry takes out a pad of paper. He uncaps an emerald-studded fountain pen, and rests his hand on the pad.

Yang chews her lip. What does she want? _Ruby_ immediately comes to mind, but Yang pushes the thought away. She doesn’t want her little sister involved with this mess. _Weiss_. The Schnee patriarch probably dragged the heiress back to Atlas, kicking and screaming. But it would reflect badly on Weiss if Junior’s men showed up – and besides, she’s probably got bodyguards 24/7. _Blake_. No. Blake ran.

She thinks of the destroyed medical convoy, and the answer becomes clear.

“I want somebody to make sure my dad continues to get medical care and doesn’t get taken off life support. Nobody who’ll draw the Hunt’s attention. I want someone who can fight off the White Fang if they attack.”

Dimitry taps the table for attention. Junior inclines his head. “According to our man, the Hunt isn’t currently guarding Taiyang Xiao Long. The Hunt has been more busy with the recent bombing.” 

“Where is he?” Junior holds up a hand, forestalling her response. “Vale General Hospital. What ward, and which room?”

“Neurological Damage Ward, Room 444.”

( _“Fours are bad luck, sunshine_ ,” _her father said as he hung red lanterns from the eaves of their cabin. “They sound like death to us. But red – we hang up red, and we scare away the monsters._ ”)

Junior nods at Dimitry. The elder man scrawls something – _protectorate Taiyang Xiao Long, request medical and security experience, Misra?_ – in neat cursive. Dimitry tears off the page, and hands it to Junior.

“I can have a man standing guard tonight,” Junior says. “I’ll give you a list of candidates tomorrow, and we’ll decide on a personal guard then.”

Yang nods. “Sounds good to me.”

Dimitry pushes a final paper across the table. _Calisto Nightclub Employment_ is written at the top. “If you agree with all the above,” he motions at the stack of forms, “sign here.”

                   阳小龙             _Yang Xiao Long_           

 

Junior offers her his hand. “Welcome to the big leagues, Blondie.”

“Thanks, Junior.”

“That’s _boss_ to you now.” Was that a wink? “Coming to the club now?”

“I’ve got one last thing to do.” Yang feels the nub of her right arm. “I’ll see you there.”

 

* * *

 

She stops a dirty alley down by the docks. The crime tape has long since been removed, repurposed to fence in the aftermath of the bombing. Dark stains still mar the dirty pavement. Yang checks for cops, and ducks in. Technically, no one is supposed to be here. The area surrounding it is still a crime scene.

A few overflowing dumpsters crowd the alley. There’s still enough space for twenty men within. Yang checks her back: no mysterious men hiding there, no glint of light off a sniper’s scope. Her Aura swells within her. There is nobody nearby.

On that terrible night, after seeing her father carted off by the EMTs, she walked to the nearby motorcycle depot. Bumblebee was still at Beacon, but Yang had a garage there. She had wrapped up her weaponized arm, then stored it away.

Yang clicks Ember Celica. The garage door slowly whirrs open, revealing a small space barely big enough to hold two Bumblebees. At the back sits a squat safe and two sets of her uniform: boots, scarves, jackets and all.

The leather jacket is tight on her shoulders. She breathes in its scent. It smells faintly of gunpowder and whiskey, like a ghost of Taiyang.

She crosses the oil-slicked cement in two paces, and taps the combination into the safe. Metal clicks as tumblers whirr into place. With a hiss, the door swings open. Her weaponized arm sits on the safe floor, bagged up and stinking of rot.

Yang gags, scraping off the bits of moldering brain and flesh onto a nearby trashcan. Yang tries not to think about her father’s screams or the gush of his blood over her hands while she cleans. A few crystals of Fire Dust later, and her gauntlet is as good as new.

The blonde brawler carefully repositions it onto the nub of her right arm. She flexes. Tiny filaments extend from the gauntlet and into the scar tissue.

She wiggles her fingers, then makes a fist.

Showtime.

 

* * *

 

Yang reaches the nightclub by 5 PM. Even after two days of city-wide lockdown, Junior’s men have managed to restore the club to its former glory. She sees fear dissipate in her coworkers’ eyes when she walks in, hips swaying and gauntlets glinting in the strobe lights. She’s directed behind the bar and down a corridor to the third door on the left, where Junior and another man are talking.

The windowless room is clearly an office: two bookshelves line the walls, and a potted plant sits next to the door. A punching bag swings from a hook by the desk. But it is clearly still under repair: water runs down the side of the punching bag from a leak in the ceiling, and half the left wall is in splinters.

The man looks her over. “Hey, kid. Running an errand?”

“Harfang, this is Blondie – Yang.” Junior quickly gestures between them. Yang gives the white-haired man a slight nod. “The new bouncer. Yang, Harfang. He co-owns this club, looks after it when I’m away.”

“So, your right hand man.”

“Speaking of right hands,” Harfang nods at her right arm, “the fuck happened to yours? Dipped it in an iron smelter?”

She flexes the gauntlet. “Punched out the head of the White Fang, no big deal.” Yang neglects to mention her first encounter with Adam did not go as well.

Harfang grins, all sharp teeth and bloodied lips. “Ooh, I like her. She’s gonna be a great bouncer.”

Junior rolls his eyes. “Remember: _paying customers_ , not terrorists.  I don’t want any lawsuits here.” The trio leaves the office and returns to the corridor. “Until Harfang passes you for solo duty, report to him after every disturbance, and fill out an incidence report.”

“Yeah, I read the employment forms. Anything else I should know?”

“I’m usually by the DJ,” Harfang says. “If I duck out, it’s important, so don’t follow me. Well, I’m off. See you later, kiddo.”

Junior holds up a finger as Yang follows him into the club.

“Ground rules: one, whatever I say, you do. You’re not paid to think. Two: if the Chief gives an order, do whatever he says. Three: don’t break any bones. Bruises are okay. Concussions are not. I know you’re a Huntress–“

“Former.”

“Former Huntress and all, but you’re a lot tougher than the normal civvie. Try not to squish them. Four: you get a thirty-minute break every two hours. Clock-out when you go. Five: you get five free drinks a week, and that’s it. The rest come out of your paycheck. Six: don’t go wandering downstairs to the basement either. It’s under repairs. Seven: lots of people will go behind the bar counter door. If anybody asks, say you saw nothing.” Junior blows out a breath. “That’s about it for rookies.”

One of his henchmen waves at him. “Boss! Don’t forget the chief thing!”

“Right… Look, Blondie,” Junior says, tugging at his collar. “When you’re at work, you call Dimitry,” she notices the room give a collective shudder, “chief. Call him whatever you want after hours, but here it’s chief. Tradition. Just do it.”

“Got it,” Yang says, feeling the metal of her right arm.

“Okay, one last thing. Try not to kill anyone with _that_.” He glances nervously at the false right arm. “The hell did you get that?”

For the first time in a long time, Yang grins. “You don’t like it?”

“Blondie, I’m not a big fan of things that look like your gauntlets.”

( _“Yang, you sure you want this?” – “Hell yeah, dad, it’ll look awesome. Cut off one arm, and another grows back! It’ll be the revenge of my fist!” – “Sunshine, you’ve got a weird sense of humor. I like it.”_ )

“Well, lucky for you, you’re on the right side of it.”

"Not nerve-wracking at all." Junior blows out a breath. “We’re expecting a lot of business today. The Malachites are still resting, but Harfang and Chief will back you up.”

“What? But the White Fang–“

"You're full of questions today, Blondie," he says, a hint of a tease on his lips as they walk over the empty dance floor. "Make sure you know when to hold your tongue."

"Working with you, boss? I might as well be prepared."

Pipes looks up from his place by the doors. Yang guessed he was there, in case someone from the Vale Police’s list of White Fang accomplices showed up. “Many died at the docks. There are still many who will want to forget.”

“And risk dying,” she says.

The main doors slide open. Three men in suits limp in.

Pipes steps in front of them. “ID?”

The men pull out their IDs, then unroll the cuff of their bleached shirts. Pipes gestures for them to enter. They go behind the bar, and pass through the entrance to the back.

“You've got your first customers. Welcome to adulthood,” Junior says with a smirk. “Dimitry will show you how to file taxes later.”

"Yay. Taxes," Yang says.

 


	12. Beer and Brawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang learns the joys of customer service.
> 
> Meanwhile, people who don't hold their tongues learn their lessons.

Eight hours into her shift, and Yang is far past hating people. She loathes them. More specifically, she loathes people who believe the Calliope Nightclub should wait on them hand and foot.

Over two hundred people flood the dance floor, getting drunk on the energy and life that pervades the place. Their arms are bare, a sea of tattoos dancing in the strobe light, like colorful butterflies in the monochrome forest around them. There is no place for Grimm or fear when hips are swaying to the electronic beat and hands are wrapped around scotch glasses. Here, it is easy to forget the death and terror that hangs over Vale. Here, it is easy to be young and stupid.

And man, do they excel at it.

 _Junior, I am so sorry for what I did to your club_ , she thinks as she breaks up the second fight in a row. _Customer service sucks._

The night is fairly quiet, or so Harfang tells her. Yang only needs to kick out ten people for being excessively drunk, fifteen for fighting, and six for being excessively touchy. In the span of eight hours, Yang has seen more hands wet with alcohol shoved into sweaty cleavage (both front and back) than she ever wanted to. She has walked in on middle-aged men grinding on younger men outside the bathrooms. There’s all these customers who pull up their sleeves for Pipes and head behind the bar door: women in handyman uniforms, Huntsmen, more men in suits. At this point, Yang doesn’t care. She wants a hot bath and then a good night’s sleep.

 _At least I know. The stripper life isn’t for me,_ she thinks. With a sigh, she disentangles a very drunk young woman – wearing enough perfume to poison a King Taijitu – from a man who just wants to drink his beer.

“C’mon, lemme show you a good time,” she croons into his ear.

He removes her leg from his lap. “Go the fuck away.”

“Hands off.” Yang bodily hauls the woman away from the distressed man. He lets out an audible sigh of relief when Yang slaps away grabby hands. “He’s not interested. Go sober up and think about your life.”

“He wants it!” she slurs, kicking out as she’s dragged across the crowded dance floor. A four-inch high-heeled foot catches Yang in the shin as the woman flails.

Yang shoves her outside. “No, he doesn’t. Don’t come back.”

Pipes closes the main doors, and gives Yang a thumbs up. “She’s not coming back in while I'm here. You’re free to go on break.”

“I might cash in a drink,” she grumbles. “How d’you do this?”

“Drink myself dumb, point and laugh when I can. Hit up Braes, he’s got a good head for drinks.” The blue-haired man checks his Scroll. “Last call’s in an hour. Drink before then. All the idiots come in before closing.”

“What if I don’t wanna drink myself dumb?”

Pipes grins. “Just tell yourself: not everyone is this stupid. I’ve got a bad batch. It’ll maintain your receding faith in human and Faunus-kind.”

“Too late, already gone,” she mutters as she walks back to the bar. “First the White Fang, and now this night club.”

 

Harfang has taken over Junior's bar-tending duties, mixing what seems an endless number of cocktails for a party of fourteen. Come to think of it, she hasn't seen Junior on the floor today. Harfang motions, _just a minute,_ to her.

“Annnnnnd done. Mauve, take this to table 16.” A woman in a sleek black dress takes up the heavy tray, and walks away. Harfang wipes his hands on a rag, then begins to pour a beer. “How’s your first day, kiddo?”

“Well, got sixteen death threats, but nobody’s threatened to sue me yet.” Yang shrugs. “They back off when I wave my arm. It’s a step up from the old days. I’d say pretty good.”

Harfang slides the glass over the counter. Amber liquid drips over the glass’s sides, coming to a foamy head.

“This one’s on me, kiddo." Harfang gives her the thumbs up. "You’re doing good out there.”

“ _Stridore_!” Pipes calls from the doors.

A small groan rises from her coworkers, Harfang included.

“ _Salute_.” Harfang pours himself a pint, and downs it. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, and jerks his thumb behind her. "Better drink now. You'll need it."

Yang turns. A male stag Faunus is strutting down to the bar, boots clacking against the mirrored floors. His jeans are so ripped that they barely pass as fabric. A White Fang emblem is prominently pinned to his leather vest. Tattoos peep out of the collar of his shirt and the small sliver of skin between his two-toned hoodie and leather gloves: human skulls, roses, a menagerie of animals all dancing across the tiny canvas.  Blood red paint drenches his antlers. The other club goers glare at him, but make no other move.

“For fu– they're going to stand there and watch. When the police are looking for White Fang. ” The golden brawler shoves her bandanna up to her bicep. Fire licks her veins. “Does anybody in this city get anything done?”

“He’s probably some brainless cheerleader for the Fang.” Yang makes to get up, but Harfang grabs her shoulder. “We’re neutral ground, kiddo, even after the attack. I like your mojo, but choose your fights. Don’t hit him until he hits you. Then he’s fair game.”

Yang drinks half of her beer. It tempers the fire somewhat.

“One round for my brothers!” the stag Faunus announces when he reaches the bar. “My Faunus bros, not those damn hornless!”

 _Charming_ , she thinks.

Harfang crosses his arms. “What are you ordering?”

“I said, a round!” The stag Faunus slams his gloved hand on the bar. He’s lanky, not much muscle covering his twiggy frame. “Should learn my name, old man, because I’m gonna be big news. The name’s Onyx! Short and sweet, rolls off the tongue, and I’m gonna rule this town!”

Yang notices the Faunus on the dance floor slowly inching towards the doors. They all bear looks of, “ _not this shit again_.”

Onyx moves to swipe Yang’s beer. Harfang moves her glass behind the counter. “Kid, onyx and round ain’t drinks. Whiskey, scotch, margarita?”

The stag Faunus plops onto a leather seat and leans across the bartop. “Gimme your hardest! And most expensive. Papa’s got lien to spend.”

At the door, Pipes mimics putting a gun to his head.

Yang mentally groans. _Yup. I’m apologizing to Junior._

 

* * *

 

Over the next hour, Onyx manages to ingratiate himself with everyone in the vicinity. Or he would, if there was anyone left. Onyx is the loud, obnoxious drunk who buys the most expensive drinks and pronounces his political alliances at the top of his lungs. A smarter man would not praise the White Fang in a club run by gangsters. For a myriad of reasons, most patrons ignore him and quietly get the hell out of the club.

Harfang leaves the bar thirty minutes before closing. Yang quickly ducks into the corridor with him.

“Shouldn’t we kick him out now?” she hisses behind the bar door.

“He’s spilling stuff Junior wants to know.” Harfang motions to the door. “Junior's a patient guy. Me, I’m about to gank a fucker. I’m out. Guerra’ll man the bar. You ready up for a fight. Shit’s going down if that kid keeps talking.”

“There’s other gangs here?”

She thinks back to her training: no one who came in had facial tattoos. Yang knows how to use make up well, but she doubts a run of the mill gangster could completely erase those kinds of tattoos.

“Hush up!” Harfang nevertheless nods. “Look, if you accidentally break his face, we’ll cover for you.”

Yang returns to the bar, not exactly relieved.

“And I got this,” Onyx points to the thick golden chain around his neck, “for bumping off this bitch.” He scrunches his face. “Amy… Aimay… ah, fuck it, fucker’s dead anyways.”

Guerra sighs as Yang passes behind him. “Another Dom Perignon, mister?”

Onyx slides a pile of lien across the counter. “Bring it on!”

 _He does have a very punchable face_ , she thinks, ears burning as Onyx loudly proclaims the White Fang’s plans to make Faunus into a superior class. At some point, Guerra leaves the bar and begins to escort people out. Yang walks towards the nearest table and does the same. _Maybe he was born with it. Maybe it’s–_

“Hey! Hey you!”

 

She mentally sighs. _If Huntressing has less customer service than this, I’m switching careers._

“Yeah! Blondie! I’m talking to you! I recognize you, you’re Yang Xiao Long!”

Yang swivels on her heel. A lesser man would back off upon seeing her golden hair is glowing white, flickering in an unseen breeze.

“Whaddya want?”

“You try’ta kill our leader.” Onyx slowly lumbers to his feet. “Yeah, the bosses been talking ‘bout you. Yang Xiao Long. Fucking disgrace of a Huntress. This all you good for? Hanging around gangsters like Junior?”

“We’re closing up soon.” Yang walks forward. Fury sings in her ears, lusting for blood. She tunes it out. Fury cost her an arm and a father. “Time for you to head on home.”

“Fuck you, I don’ listen to murderers. Your daddy should’ve died for what he done. Vigilante justice.” He spits on the ground by her boots. “When my guys rule the town, maybe we’ll end up using you, then you’ll–“

“Not interested. Junior’s a better boss.” She slides his pile of lien across the counter, and into the tip jar. “You’ve got three seconds before I throw you out.”

“You’re like every other Huntress. You don’t care how the Faunus suffer, just as long as you get yours!” He scoffs, and raises his arms in a boxer’s stance. “I’m gonna make you just like your daddy and that Aine!”

 _He’s either very drunk, or very stupid_ , Yang thinks as she waits for the impact.

His fist smacks into her shoulder.

The golden brawler grins, and lets her Aura consume her.

Onyx winds up for another strike. She merely pushes him back into the bar. Two burn marks in the shape of her hands mark his leather vest.

The stag Faunus collides with the bartop. The wine glass tips. Alcohol splashes over the bartop. Shards of glass scatter over the floor behind the counter. She crosses the distance in two strides. Her flaming fist comes too close to the puddle as she rains blows on Onyx’s chest. Hungry flames leap up from the alcohol, singeing the stag Faunus’s neck.

“You want some?” Yang pins Onyx to the bar top, leveraging the edge of Ember Celica underneath his chin. She's not even out of breath, and the Faunus beneath is panting like a dog cooking in a car. “Because if you want to go, I’m ready.”

“Yeah, great for a human _cripple_.”

He makes to gouge out her eyes with his antlers. She knocks his head back with her right arm, and jams her left gauntlet under his chin once again. This time, the barrel is aimed straight at his throat.

“I’m warning you, kid,” she says, though he is barely older than herself. “I’ve punched out worse than you.”

 

“Yang Xiao Long.”

"Everybody knows my name around here," she groans as she turns her head. "It's like I've got a bounty on my head."

Dimitry sits at the tables behind her, newspaper carefully folded by his right arm. She doesn’t remember seeing the older man earlier. Yang considers the situation. Junior probably sent him out: Dimitry seems important to his organization.

“Get this fucking bitch offa me!” Onyx howls.

Dimitry raises an eyebrow. “Explain, please.”

“She started it!” the stag Faunus says. He tries to throw a punch, but she knuckles down and he goes limp.

Yang is tempted to punch him for being a massive dick. Maybe a kick in the balls for good measure. Then again, the last time she punched first and asked questions later, she ended up losing an arm. Yang might be short-tempered and rash, but she has learned patience the hard way.

“This is Junior’s club,” Dimitry says, looking at Yang. “The boss trusts that his employees make the right decisions.”

“He was being unruly, chief,” she says. “I didn’t punch him until he started praising the White Fang–“

He spits in her face. “And damn it, if you can do this to a normal citizen, then we goddamn need the White Fang!”

Dimitry looks over the man sprawled across the bartop. “Yang, please continue?”

“I swear, I did my best to ignore him. But he just… he got so obnoxious. Particularly when he said the Huntsman who attacked Adam Taurus should have died,” Yang says, her voice hard. “I wanted him out of the club.”

“Could you have done it less conspicuously?”

“I… yes, chief. I’m sorry.”

“Keep that in mind for the next time,” Dimitry says as he stands up. The stag Faunus looks up at the impassive man. “You. Name?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I asked you once, _recluta_.”

The stag Faunus shudders, but only for a second. “I said, go fuck yourself.”

Dimitry shrugs. “This is a dance club, not a political rally. You’re old enough to know the boundaries. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“If I knew what was gonna happen today, I would’ve brought my buddies and taught you all a lesson,” Onyx snarls.

“Misra. Any marks?”

One of her coworkers comes forward and peels off the burnt remains of the jacket from Onyx’s chest. She carefully examines the tattoos swirling down the antlered-man’s arms. “Beowolf skull, chief, and three White Fang insignias.”

“Not a _recluta_ , or White Fang, then.” Dimitry taps his fingers against the table. “ _Bota_ of the Beowolves’ local chapter.”

“Go fuck yourself! You don’t know what you’ve done!” The stag Faunus struggles, nails raking across Misra’s arms. “We get your hands on you–“

“Quiet.” Misra twists Onyx’s arms behind his back. “The chief is deciding.”

“You know the rules,” the elder man says. “When you took your oath and ink, you agreed to respect certain boundaries.”

"Who gives a fuck?" The stag Faunus spits in Dimitry's direction. “You’re all dead! You’re all fucking dead! Once the White Fang take over, you’re all dead! You’re gonna die like that Huntsman – that blonde bitch is first – I’ll rip her fucking head–”

A hard smile spreads across Dimitry’s lips.

“That will be all. Yamada, Chnel. Out back, please.”

“Yes, chief,” they say in unison.

The two men sheathe their blades, then come to take the stag Faunus from Guerra. He’s screaming now – long lines of profanity in a slurring, sugary language – she hears _puta_ repeated over and over as Chnel and Yamada drag him behind the bar door.

Dimitry looks around. The club has long since emptied: the only people left are personnel. He picks up a broom from the bar, and begins to sweep up the glass.

The stag Faunus’s screams fade into the distance.

A gunshot pierces the air.

Yang reels.

_Holy… Did… did I just get someone…_

 

A few minutes later, Chnel and Yamada come back into the club, wiping bloodied hands on their slacks.

She stares at them, then at Dimitry.

He gestures to the bar behind her. “I find a drink or two helps.”

"Did I just…” Yang waves her hands. "I… I didn't…"

The hard lines of Dimitry’s mouth soften somewhat as he looks her over.

“This is what passes as justice for this family.”

That does not entirely assuage the guilt bubbling up in her throat.

 _He deserved it_ , she thinks. _He got a lot of people killed. This is justice. This is justice for everyone._

Guerra comes barreling down the stairs, followed by Junior.

“All right, who’s hurt?” the boss demands, looking back and forth between the men on the floor and Yang. “What’s broken?”

“Nothing, business-wise,” Dimitry says. He takes the broom from Guerra and begins sweeping up the shattered glass. “I’m afraid some of your inventory was smashed up.”

Junior motions for Guerra to leave. The henchman does so. The bearded bartender races over to Yang. “Good, you’re not hurt,” he says, examining her bruised arm. “There’s an icepack in the fridge. Okay, who was the asshole?”

“Bo _ta_ from the Beowolf’s local chapter.” Yang picks up a rag and begins to douse the flames as Dimitry talks. “He knew the rules, he broke them, he paid.”

“Fucking Faunus.” Junior rolls his shoulders. “Never know when to quit. They could’ve stopped _any_ time once they got their rights–“

"Not all Faunus," Yang says instinctively. She think of a black bow sitting atop cat ears. "Some just want… actually, you might be right."

“Junior.” Dimitry's voice is gentle, as if he's soothing a scared bear cub. “I know your grievances. I’ll hear them later.”

“It’s just so _frustrating…_ spent five years, and what did that - never mind.” Junior blows out a breath. “The kid anyone special?”

“No one irreplaceable.” Dimitry’s voice is pleasant, but the air-conditioned club's atmosphere still seems to drop a few degrees. “Once Harfang is done, he will be at your disposal.”

“All right, all right, we’ll pump him and drop’m off at a police station.” Dimitry’s mouth twists. “Yes, I know Chief. Times have changed. We can’t ally with terrorists. We should ally with downtrodden Faunus. Help the innocent! Get our asses killed! Same old, same old.”

“Is there a reward for him?” Yang asks, looking up from the counter. “Maybe it could help with club repairs.”

Dimitry heads back to the table, and flicks through the newspaper. “None. Good thinking, however.”

Junior shakes his head and looks her over. "Sorry about that, Blondie. I've just got some… history, with Faunus like that kid."

“The way you’re staring, boss, I’d almost think you’re worried about me,” she says teasingly.

To her surprise, Junior doesn’t shudder. If anything, he stands taller. The club lights shine over his broad shoulders and the pistol at his hip.

“Of course,” Junior says. “He hurt one of our own. And here, we take care of our own.”

 _Our own_. The words echo in her head. _This is my family now_.

She doesn't think of a red cloaked reaper, the flicker of grey wings, or a golden head lying motionless in bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stridore: squealer. Someone who's loose-lipped. Often identified by a sheer lack of common sense, like wearing White Fang insignia in a club that recently suffered attacks from the group.
> 
> Next update: probably second week of June. This chapter may undergo revisions so we can get on with plot.


	13. Snake Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuous overlapping scales of snakes allow the reptiles to easily shed their skin.
> 
> (A lot of filler, and then some plot)

_“–we’re not ready,_ ” Weiss says, crossing her arms. Her form flickers, her peacoat darkening and shrinking into Dimitry's suit and poison-green tie and suddenly it's the older man standing there, fists clenched in the folds of his arms. Team RWBY - or, RDBY for the moment – is gathered in their old dorm room, on the third floor of the West Wing. The familiarity sits in Yang's chest like a thorny bramble, taking root in her stomach.

" _You were right_ ," she says, " _we weren't ready, but we had to move._ "

Ruby shakes her head. " _The White Fang's moving to Mistral! We have to follow them! Who knows what they're planning?"_

" _We might be stronger."_ Dimitry twirls his tie between his fingers. Roses suddenly bloom and wither within its depths. _"But it's not good enough. There's an army out there. We're not here to die, we're here to make money and keep our families safe. We're not ready!_ "

“ _And we may never be ready!_ ” Blake plants her foot into the carpeting. “ _Our enemies aren't just going to sit around and wait for graduation day_.” She leveled her index at the door of their dorm room. She too changes as she speaks: her voice deepening, her shoulders broadening to fill out a white dress shirt and a blood red tie. “ _They're out there,"_ Junior continues, _"somewhere, planning their next move, and none of us know what it is, but it's coming! Whether we're ready or not!_ ”

A hail of bullets suddenly cuts through the door, piercing Junior’s body in a thousand places. He cries out and drops. The blood pooling beneath his body reaches out, claiming his form, and suddenly it's Blake on the floor.

Dimitry vanishes, replaced with a Weiss about to draw Myrtenaster.

The White Fang henchman from the train leaps through the door, chainsaw buzzing away.

Yang lurches forward, but her feet are glued to the floor.

 _“_ Damn it, damn it, move!” she shouts. She racks Ember Celica, extending it into shotgun form, and she is far too late. “This isn’t how it happened! This isn’t–”

The chainsaw bisects Weiss, splattering gore over her terrified teammates.

“ _Weiss!”_ Ruby cries.

Her sister extends Crescent Rose and comes in for the attack.

The last thing Yang sees is the chainsaw going through her younger sister’s neck.

 

* * *

 

Yang’s eyes open and all she can see is pink.

She struggles, but her muscles are locked in on each other. Fern-patterned sheets restrain her to the bed – wait, her dorm had scarlet sheets, not beige…

Her heart pulses away in her throat.

 _It's just a nightmare,_ she realizes. _I'm okay._

She settles back against the bed, heart pounding away. Her father’s jacket peeps out from below the pillow. Yang presses the soft tan leather to her face, breathing in the faint scent of gunpowder and fire.

“It’s not real.” Yang draws a slow, shaking breath. There’s the aftertaste of spam in her mouth and it urges on the nausea welling up in her belly. She knows from experience that human flesh does not taste of salt and preservatives and singed meat. “It’s not real. You’re not responsible for whatever happens to them. You can move on now. It’s okay, Yang. Get it together. It’s okay.”

She touches her cheeks.

No sticky gore there, only the slick of sweat.

Yang extricates herself from the covers. The clock reads 1:30 PM. In two hours, she’ll suit up and head to the bar. She’ll probably spend some time training in the gym, or help load the shipments of Atlesian beer that should have arrived two weeks ago into the bar.

 

Life in the Calisto Nightclub may seem monotonous, but it never is. Every new day brings someone who manages to sink Yang’s opinion of humanity deeper into the gutter. Yesterday, someone had smeared blood all over the women’s washroom. Harfang had taken one look at the mess, then called a biohazard crew to clean it up. Then someone had gone behind the counter and burst out holding a bag of white powder. Talk about Remnant's most visible criminal. So she had to call down Junior, because there were Huntsmen in the club, and then there was a gang leader who came to claim the baggie and what a mess that was.

There's probably still blood on the dance floor.

After working in customer service, Yang can proudly say there is barely anything that can phase her.

She has fallen into a comfortable pattern. She knows almost all the henchmen's names, and has apologized profusely to Pipes and Guerra - apparently, she broke their ribs the first time she arrived at the club. But saving them from the King Taijitu has wiped away the debt. They work together, trading stories between last call and the club closure and gangster wannabes rolling up to the club looking for a fight.

" _Yeah, the other clubs aren't any better_ ," Guerra admitted as they rolled the latest idiot onto a stretcher. The man's wine and vomit-soaked wifebeater picked up bits of broken glass from the dance floor. " _At least here, we've got people to protect the patrons if something goes down._ "

" _These people are a danger to themselves,_ " she grumbled, nursing her black eye courtesy of the unconscious man. " _So we just leave him here until somebody picks him up?_ "

Guerra pointed out the rose wrapped in barbed wire tattoo on the man's left shoulder. " _Always someone who wants lost souls like him. Don't worry, we'll never see him again._ "

 

Yang steps into the shower and washes away the grime of last night. Although she washed last night, she can still feel blood sticking to her hair.

She shakes her head, sending a spray of water splattering against the fern-patterned shower curtains. How times have changed. Her favorite brand of conditioner and shampoo is currently out of stock, thanks to the bombing at the docks. She thinks of a time when snagging a lock of her hair would have cost someone their club. No time for vanity now, when Vale is struggling to keep its head above a tide of Grimm and crime.

At least she’s doing her part. In the synth beat and the pop of fizzy alcohol, Yang guides the citizens who frequent her club away from their worries.

“ _Listen, girlfriend....can't you see?_ ” she sings, lathering her golden locks into a foamy cloud. “ _I'm all of the things that you'll never be_ …”

Her left fingers ghost over the nub of her right arm. She wiggles her right fingers. Although there is nothing there, she can still feel the flex and stretch of tendons and flesh. It almost feels… normal.

“ _I'm cool like the rain and I'm hot like the sun_.” She turns off the showerhead and dries off with a puff of Aura. “ _I'm a neon rainbow and you're no fun.”_

Yang puts on her Hunter uniform, slightly modified for her new job. Gone is her father’s jacket: that sits safely under her pillow. She wears a Dust-laced suit jacket nowadays, the same as her coworkers, that barely exposes a inch of flesh on her torso. Long jet-colored boots hug her legs up to her thighs. The heel now hides three-inch long blades. The only trace of gold on her body is her sigil-stamped t-shirt, and that too has changed: infusion with Dust, Kevlar, a little silk to keep it smooth… It helps her pass as a Huntress. Keeps the suspicion off of her shoulders just long enough for her to slip out of the room.

She twists before the mirror.

The sunset red sash at her hip flutters like a flash of fire. When redesigning her uniform, she chose to have this flash of Taiyang’s favorite color.

 _I know he won’t ever get up_ , Yang thinks as she touches the sash, _but it’s nice to have this. Wonder what he would think of me now._

Yang heads to the rest of the apartment. Quiet hangs over the rooms like a well-worn blanket. Sometimes, she wakes up at 3 AM to the sound of screaming stifled by pillows. When she goes to investigate, there's a henchman in the living room bleeding out with Junior's hands wrapped around the wound in his gut. In those cases, she suits up, pulls on gloves, and holds the guy together until a doctor comes by the apartments. Sometimes Junior sleeps over in the next door bedroom, and she wakes up to muffled cursing in the kitchen as Junior attempts to make breakfast. She gets up, wrestles with the coffee machine, then sits with him on the balcony to watch Vale rise. Sometimes she wakes up to the muffled pad of booted feet in the corridor, the whine of Dimitry's study door closing, and quiet sobs. Those times, she does not dare interfere. There is something private about grief.

The living room is empty, but a tin-foiled plate sits on the study desk. A note is tucked underneath a fork and knife: in Dimitry’s neat writing, it reads,

> _Junior requests your presence when you arrive to work. About lunch: options are limited after the attacks on the docks. I hope this is to your liking._

She lifts the corner of the foil. Tiny shell-like pasta floats in a bath of spicy tomato sauce. Cubes of rose-pink meat hide beneath blankets of curled kale. She breathes in the scent of peppers and spinach, laden with hints of dried shrimp and white crumbles of cheese.

Yang pops a chunk of meat into her mouth, chews and winces.

It’s spam. 

“You were right, daddy. Spam really is meant for dogs. Scratch that, I wouldn’t feed it to poor Zwei.” Yang rubs her eyes. “I hope Professor Oobleck’s taking good care of the little guy.”

She sits at the study desk, and watches armed Huntsmen patrol the street below as she eats.

_Daddy’d understand. He’d know I’m just doing the best I can._

 

* * *

 

At 3:45, Yang arrives at Calisto’s back door. Harfang rests on the shipping deck's doorstep: a cigarette sits between his lips, tip glowing like a tiny coal as the co-owner contentedly puffs away.

“Hey, kiddo. You're early.” Harfang rolls the cigarette between his fingers. He’s almost as pale as the smoke rising from his lips. “You could’ve slept in, after yesterday’s shitshow.”

“Wanted to make a good impression. The shipment arrived yet?” Yang asks.

“Fuck no. Nothing runs on time, after those fucking Grimm hit town. We got another hour or two to kill. Sorry, go-getter.” The white haired man reaches into his black suit jacket, withdraws an unlit cigarette, and proffers it to her. “Want one?”

“Not my thing, sorry.”

“Suit yourself.” He stubs out his old cigarette on the ashtray.

Yang summons a spark of Aura to her index. She holds the flame out before her boss.

Harfang grunts his thanks, and lights his cigarette.

Silence sits comfortably between them. Smoke winds its way into the air.

 _It would be really easy for someone to shoot us_ , she thinks, scanning the Valean rooftops.

"Nobody's gonna take a potshot, kiddo." Harfang gestures at the road leading up to the alley. "Too much risk of hitting a civvie. The police'll start breathing down their necks."

“Speaking of police. Did anyone get into trouble last night for… that?” she asks.

“What’s it worth to you?”

“Wanna be prepared.” Yang shrugs at his raised eyebrow and wiggles her gauntleted right hand. “I have to preload Ember Celica.”

“A metric fuckton.” Harfang flicks the ash from his fingers. “If you’re gonna toe the line, kiddo, make sure to do it where nobody’ll see it. Everything’s legal when there’s no cops.”

She nods and checks the rounds in Ember Celica. Hollow point, lead, with a bit of Fire Dust in the propellant for an extra kick. If someone or a Grimm bursts through Calisto's doors, they're staying down.

“There won’t be cops tonight?”

Harfang looks her over, golden eyes darkening slightly. “Kid, you gotta ask the boss on this one. Not a good idea to talk about that out here.”

“What hoops do I hafta jump through this time?” Yang tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Clean the washrooms, polish the floor, throw out the drunkest man to ever walk Remnant who smelled just like my uncle…”

“Ask Junior.” Harfang blows out a long plume of smoke. It dances above his head like a sinuous snake. “You’re at a crossroads, kid, and that’s all I’ll say about that.”

“It’s no secret you guys are criminals.”

Harfang rubs his thumb of the Ursa skull tattoo on his right hand. “Big difference between walking the walk and talking the talk, kiddo.”

A truck whines and beeps. Harfang pinches the tip of his cigarette to extinguish it, then sets it in his suit pocket.

“Let’s get moving.” He scans the rooftops, as if watching for the glint of a sniper’s scope. “Junior’s got enough on his plate without us slacking.”

 

* * *

 

They’re halfway through unloading the truck when Junior summons Yang to his office.

“Stand guard here,” Junior motions at the doorway, “and if cops come by, ask for a warrant. If a kid with tattoos comes up… you know what to do. I’d like your opinion on some business matters.”

Yang raises an eyebrow. “Does this involve punching people?”

“If you think that'll help. Advertising.” Junior’s suit jacket stretches with the flex of muscle as he shrugs. “It’s been a while since I was a teen.”

“Gotta say, Junior, I’m surprised you weren’t born drinking.”

"You're confusing me with Dimitry." Junior jerks his thumb at the man standing by his desk. "Who could stand to do more and drink a little _less_."

"Hint taken, Junior," Dimitry says mildly.

The golden brawler crosses her arms. “So whatcha need, boss?”

Dimitry passes Junior a tablet from his briefcase. “We are reaching the turnaround point,” the older man says. “It has been approximately a month since the bombing. Club attendance will drop, and with it, our profit.”

Junior nods. “Word is that the other Kingdoms don’t want Valean refugees anymore. So people are stuck here. That leaves a lot of edgy teens on the streets. You gotta keep them out of trouble. Any thoughts?”

Yang taps her nose. “Why are you worrying about the teens? Are they Huntsmen?”

“Don’t want people sticking their noses where they don’t belong.” Junior taps his Scroll. A map of Vale appears on his desk. Small dots fluctuate over its surface, glowing Grimm red. “This here’s a report of the latest White Fang activity. Most of the people stuck here are Faunus. Not rich enough to pay their way out, but not angry enough to hook up with the White Fang. We want to keep them that way. Well, the latter at least. They’re roughly thirteen to twenty years of age, going to the local combat school. Sounds like most of them are thinking of enlisting in the army. How do we keep them out of trouble until then?”

“I’ve suggested community nights and dinners,” Dimitry says in a long-suffering tone, “but Junior has decided our resources are better spent otherwise.”

The golden brawler laughs. “No offense, Chief, but if I was thirteen years old, I’d want to punch the hell out of something. Any chance we can set up a fight club?”

Junior and Dimitry share a look, then the older man writes something down.

“Lawsuits ahoy. Wouldn’t be willing to go through unless we had trained personnel on hand.” Junior shakes his head. “Still, not a bad thought. Could recruit some boys from that.”

“There’s Harfang,” Yang said. “He doesn’t seem like a bad teacher.”

“I wouldn’t trust that man with anything more sophisticated than an eraser,” Dimitry says with a surprising amount of venom.

Yang raises an eyebrow. Over the past month, she has never seen Dimitry so angry, but with his slicked back hair and tan tie sliding neatly into his suit jacket, he looks like a cobra ready to strike.

“It’s true that Harfang is not the best at management or teaching,” Junior says in a placating voice. “We’re just throwing things to see what sticks. We’re not finalizing anything, Dimitry. Calm down.”

The brawler files that away: _bad blood between Dimitry and Harfang. Could use that if I need something from one of them._

Dimitry pinches the bridge of his nose. “As you wish, Junior. Any other suggestions, Yang?”

“Dance nights. Competitions usually do well,” she adds after a second, “there’s always a show-off…“

 

They continue to talk about Calisto’s future prospects, until 5 PM rolls around and they descend to the bar.

Just as Junior is about to dismiss her, Yang asks, “So, how’s the basement repairs going?”

"Depends on how involved you want to be," the boss responds. "Not just the club. My people."

"I've stuffed people's guts back into their bodies. How involved do you want me to be?"

Junior gives her a long look. “Put it this way. Say everything goes back to normal: no more Grimm at Beacon, no more White Fang crawling around… Would you go back to being a Huntress?”

“Fuck no.” Yang rolls her shoulders. She picks up a glass with her good hand and begins to polish it. “Look, Junior, nobody trusts me. When you’re a Huntress, you need people to trust you. Otherwise they run straight towards the fucking Grimm.”

“The Coliseum incident.” Junior cocks his head. “Funny you mention that. You know, that Mercury kid? Word is he’s a double amputee.”

“What.”

“Marcus Black.” The name rolls off the bearded bartender’s tongue. “Heavy drinker. Would pop in on my payroll occasionally. Founded the Brotherhood of Black.”

The golden brawler feels distinctly like Jaune.

“Never heard of it.”

“Assassins,” Dimitry supplies. “Expensive, but the best in their field.”

Yang’s head is whirling.

 _I could be innocent,_ she thinks, then, _oh Dust. They were at Beacon the entire time. Cinder, Emerald, Mercury… They could’ve killed one of us. And Ozpin never caught on._

Then,

_Was the old man blind?!?_

“And you never, like, told the police?” she asks to break the silence.

“We avoided selling out the brotherhood,” Dimitry said, “to avoid becoming his next victim. A form of thief’s honor. It was misplaced.”

“What happened to Marcus?” Yang asks. She mentally flicks over the possibilities. Working for Junior means she had an in if she needs it. It’s also more unlikely that Mercury will seek her out. There is safety in numbers, and she has seen what the Calisto crew are willing to do to protect their own.

“Dead, most likely. Don’t seek Black out,” Junior warns. “Men like him are wildcards. Stick to your family, they’re people you can trust. And don’t consider revenge either, I don’t want that Cinder woman on my doorstep.”

“She allied with the White Fang.” Yang crosses her arms. “She’s responsible for everything. She goes down, and so does the White Fang.”

“Yeah, ‘ve had enough of them for a lifetime. Terrorists, psychotic trigger-happy bitches, _and_ assassins?” Junior shudders. “That’s asking to end up in cement shoes at the bottom of Vale Harbor if you’re _lucky._ ”

“Have you recently angered him?” Dimitry asks. “We can have security–“

_He ran my life through the mud for nothing. I was just a pawn in Cinder’s game._

Yang flexes her fists.

“If he comes, I’m ready. No, I… I just wanted to know.”

Junior harrumphs. “I kinda need you around, Blondie. Don’t go getting yourself killed.” He checks his watch. “We open in twenty, people!” he yells to the club. “Oh, Blondie,” he says, voice dropping to a conspiratory whisper. “Word on the street is that life support stuff is getting very expensive. Atlas is threatening to cut off trade to Vale. We can cover your pops, but you’ll have to pull more hours to cover it.”

“Got it, Junior.”

“If that is all,” Dimitry says, snapping his briefcase close, “I will go meet with the others.”

“Shoot.” Junior gestures at the club doors. Dimitry nods curtly, and walks away.

Yang ponders the boss’s words as she readies the bar.

“Hey, boss… anyway a girl can pull in more cash besides beating people up?”

He pours out a beer. “Like I said earlier. Depends if you’re willing to join Arcturus.”

“Hell yeah.”

 

Junior nearly drops his bottle.

“Why is that so surprising?” Yang asks. “You’ve been bugging me since the day I walked into Vale.”

“Wasn’t quite expecting the _enthusiasm_ , Blondie.” Junior jerks his thumb at the henchmen cleaning the bloodstains off of the mirrored dance floor. “You know what we do, right?”

Yang clears her throat. “You sell information,” she says, pointing at her boss, “Harfang beats people up, Pipes street-fights which is kinda like beating people up, I don’t know what the hell Misra does but she’s always covered in showgirls–“

“All right, all right, I get the point!” Junior waves his arms. “You don’t need to shout it out loud!”

“So, am I in or what?” Yang gestures to the spotlights above. “Or do I need a song and dance number?”

“You’ll have to undergo some tests,” Junior says. “There’s a ritual to being sworn in.”

“I thought you were a gang, not a cult.”

Junior laughs. “It’s tradition. Go with the flow.”

“All right. How do I start?”

Junior nods at Miltia and Melanie striding through the double doors. Melanie is still limping, her sharpened heels clicking against the floor with every step. Melanie’s shoulders are hunched over, but she still sweeps over the dance floor as though she earn it.

“You’ve got to earn us a bit of money. They’ll show you how.” He cups his hands. “Melanie! Miltia! I got you fresh meat!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yangxiaowow made some fanart for this fic! Check out bad guy Yang at: http://saskyang.tumblr.com/post/145377654549/my-interpretation-of-bad-guy-yang-from-this
> 
> Next chapter:
> 
> 1st RULE: You do not talk about FIGHT CLUB.


	14. Three Strikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first rule of the fight club is that the fight isn't over until you're bleeding out.

“Rules are simple,” Melanie says as the group trots down the stairs to the basement. “Each round is three minutes long. Best of three, or whoever passes out from blood loss first.”

A shiver passes over Yang's shoulders.

 _What did Pyrrha say?_ the golden brawler wonders as she peers around the dim hallway. _‘Have you ever felt like someone was watching you before?’_

The rapid repairs pop out in her vision: patches of wall that still stink of fresh paint, incandescent lights that shine brighter than their compatriots, wooden steps that still squish from a thorough soaking in Grimm goo and blood… The incandescent bulbs’ kingdom ends at the bottom of the stairs, whereupon two glowing strips lining the walls light the way.

It feels very familiar. But the back of her neck still prickles with unseen tension.

“-anyways, we fight for like, best of three.” Melanie caresses the long claws protruding from Miltia’s gauntlet. Her cyan nail squeaks along the oiled metal. “10% cut of entrance fees goes to the fighters. Winner gets the _calderone_.”

“Translation to Valean?”

“A betting pot,” Junior says as they walk down the hallway. “We rent out this space and sell the fights. Professional fighters usually. Or somebody wants to settle a grudge; either way, doesn’t matter to us. Audience members pay to enter, and give us a cut of their bets. We collect 1% for the _calderone_. Every night means a new pot.”

Yang raises an eyebrow. “People pay you to make bets?” She mimes pinching the pockets of her belt shut. “I’ve seen what you put in the grappa, Junior.”

“That stuff’s plenty strong enough even watered down.” The bearded bartender snorts and waves a gloved hand. “Blondie, you’ve seen who we work with. A 1% cut to make sure your money’s safe? When you’re rich, that’s nothing.”

“Damn rich people,” Miltia whispers to her twin. Melanie giggles.

“I’m right next to you two,” Junior says, and the giggling stops.

"Never took you for a sugar daddy, boss," Yang says. "A sugar baby, maybe."

"He's not really one," Melanie says.

"Rather cheap," Miltia agrees. "We've had better."

"Why don't you shout out my social insurance number while you're at it?" Junior asks, rubbing his forehead.

Melanie laughs, the sound like icicles ready to fall. "We're just joking, Junior. A little fun between friends! We do so much for you after all."

The group comes to a dead end.

Melanie turns to face Yang. “If the cops come,” she mimes zipping her lips shut.

Yang goes to give her a thumbs up, but the gauntlet on her right hand isn’t conducive to hand gestures. She settles for using her left hand.

“We’ve got to get you a surgeon,” Junior mutters as he ungloves his right hand. Five fingers are pressed to the wall. "That gauntlet's starting to freak me out."

Something beeps.

Light creeps into the hallway, banishing the darkness. Junior puts his glove back on and suddenly there is light – harsh and bright, shining down on a white octagon about twenty feet down, impossible to avoid like the sun's angry glare on a hut summer's day. The air hums, a telltale sign of force fields. Tiers of seats encircle the ring, rising up to meet the hallway.

 _It’s just like the dueling hall at Beacon,_ Yang realizes.

 

“The Tourada.” Miltia taps her heels against the floor. “We Malachites are the current champions. People pay a lot of money to see us.”

“We have to prepare for tonight’s fights.” Melanie winks at the golden brawler. The white feathers around her neck ruffle in the breeze. “See you later, Yang.”

Miltia and Melanie blow Junior a kiss in unison. Junior waves them away, and the twins click their way to a door hidden in the black paneling.

“So, Blondie. You still in for it?” he asks. "The fights, I mean, unless you're into girls."

"I didn't exactly come here to find a girlfriend," Yang says.

The inklings of a plan begin to form in her head. Junior may no longer be associated with the Brotherhood of Black, but if she can draw Mercury over to Vale…

And there is always the ever-present threat of Adam Taurus. He must be alive. The newspapers would have gloated over his death for days had he really died. She has allies now, but she needs money as well. Junior’s favor will not last forever, and her father still lies helpless in that hospital ward.

She makes her decision.

Yang does not do subtle, but she knows how to play. A feinted kiss to get someone to lean in, empty words to take away the sting of rejection, a swing of her hips to get someone to spill – how different could it be?

“You want to sell this fight,” she confirms.

“10% cut, and if you’re fighting someone good, that’s worth a lot.” Junior shrugs, but his eyes gleam. “You’re a beginner, but in time, you’ll make big bucks.”

Yang rolls her eyes. She needs to be nonchalant. Can’t draw too much attention, not at this stage.

“As if. Look, boss, you’re not capitalizing on this. Nobody’s gonna pay to see Melanie and Miltia beat up some random girl for the 50th time.”

“There’s a market for that, but we’re not in it.” She raises an eyebrow. The bearded bartender folds his arms. “Melanie and Miltia aren't interested. So tell me your genius plan, Blondie.”

“You could make a lot more money.” She jabs a thumb at her chest. “I’m Yang Xiao Long, and people still think I’m the reason why Beacon fell. Yeah, sure, Taurus didn’t help, but breaking Mercury’s leg? Drew all the Grimm over, even if I didn’t actually break his legs.”

“Don’t know if I like the direction you’re going, Blondie.”

“It’s really simple, Junior. Bill be as a bigger threat. People want to see me hurt-”

Junior shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I need my workers intact.”

She summons a wisp of harmless flame to her fingertips and holds it before him. “Former Huntress, remember? I came charging at you and came out clean. But the people who come to drink here don’t know that. As long as I look hurt, they get what they want.”

 _I’m going to do this whether you like it or not_ , the golden brawler thinks as she stares down the gang boss. _Go with me. Make it easier on everyone else. Hell, you’ll even get some profit outta this mess._

“And still work at this bar?” Junior shakes his head. “Bouncers shouldn’t scare customers away.”

“Nobody has recognized me in this,” Yang says, tapping her black and white clothes. “They know my Huntress outfit and my boobs. I’ll keep them under wraps at work, and nobody’ll know my name.”

“Except members of the White Fang.”

“Well, that’s why you hired me.” She grinds her fist against the butt of her gauntlet. “Thought you called it, _taking out the trash._ ”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it." She stares him down, amethyst eyes meeting clear brown ones. She can see old fury resting in his eyes, resentment that hasn't yet gone away, and this burning hunger that lurks in the periphery of his irises. "Anyways – what would be better than taking money outta the White Fang’s pockets? You said it yourself – this is neutral ground. And less money means less cash to buy bullets. It’s safer this way."

The bearded bartender sighs. "Right. Look, I know this is neutral ground, but the White Fang still have ties to… others." He reached into his vest and pulls out a slim screen that unfurls from its tight roll. Only in the bright spotlights' glare can she see the miniature circuits threading the plastic and leading up to the tiny keyboard. "If you see something at work - anything at all - red for White Fang present and nobody's on the scene, yellow if you think they're there, and green if someone's handling the sitch."

She takes the screen. "So… where am I gonna put it?"

"Slap it over your gauntlet or something, hell if I care. The Malachites have theirs in their dresses."

"Hidden in all that fabric. Is this heat sensitive, by the way? I don't want it to melt onto my gauntlet."

Junior shrugs. "Dimitry spilled a bottle of wine, and Harfang set it on fire. It's still in one piece."

Yang applies the screen over her right gauntlet.

"So do you want to make more cash, or what?" she asks. "With all the Grimm and White Fang around, it's not like you'll get that many customers otherwise."

Junior is quiet for a while.

“I’ll see if Harfang can spare you girls.” He motions for them to head to the stairs.

“They’re not gonna hurt me,” Yang says as she heads towards the light pooling at the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” he agrees, “but you might hurt them. I don't want arguments because of poor communication.”

 

* * *

 

That seems to have been on Harfang’s mind, because when Junior requests the twins for a night in the fight club, Harfang immediately lights up a cigarette despite standing in a bar full of extremely volatile alcohol. Watered down though it may be.

 Junior fills a glass with water and slams it on the bar top. “Put that out, before you set this place on fire.”

“We are trained in fire safety, boss,” Melanie says. Spirals of ice crystals dance along her heels as if to prove her point. “We could take it.”

“And replace the thousands of dollars worth of alcohol there?” Junior asks. "Harfang and Dimitry don't pay you nearly that much."

“You kids and your fire safety.” The white-haired man douses his cig. “Junior, I thought we had an agreement. I don’t want to babysit your ass. That’s the M-squared’s job.”

“Yang has made a… profitable argument,” Junior says.

“And we’re soooo bored,” Miltia says, dramatically throwing a hand to her forehead. “Come on, boss-man. Last time we were this bored, we–“

“Zip it,” Junior says, and the two girls giggle. “Seriously. Not at work.”

“Ahh, young love.” Harfang plops onto a stool and knocks away Junior’s hand, barely avoiding the slap. “Kiddo, Miltia, Melanie: you break your fucking necks, you’re not getting paid this week. I’m not arguing sick pay with Dimitry again.”

“We’re doing you a service, boss-man.” Melanie extends her claws. “Who doesn’t wanna see girls fight?”

“That’s for horny teens.” The white-haired man shrugs. “When you’re my age, you develop–“

“Too much fucking information,” Junior says hastily. He looks Yang up and down. “Go change already. Your fight’s in an hour.”

 

* * *

 

She steps out onto the octagon an hour later, blonde hair fluttering like fire over her shoulders and waist. Instead of her father’s hand-me-down coat, Yang has selected a simple brown biker’s jacket. It’s not her usual look, but with a few nips and tucks, it looks almost like the original thing.

She turns amethyst eyes to the faces in the crowd – Faunus, men, women, old and young, most clothed in evening wear, others still drenched in sweat and blood – and smiles at them.

Is it just her eyes, or is there a hint of mint-green hair in the crowd? Yang squints, but the mint-haired girl quickly disappears into the sea of faces.

It seems there is a spy in the crowd.

She taps out a message to Junior on the screen installed in her arm: _YELLOW: WF? HERE._

Her arm buzzes subtly. _NOTED. - DB_

“Melanie and Miltia Malachite! Tourada favorites!” Pipes declares from some place in the rafters. Yang snaps back to attention, “Current champions, odds 1:4!”

At the opposite end of the octagon, Melanie and Miltia stroll forward. They blow kisses at the crowd – skirts ruffling, ribbons tied around waists whistling in the air-conditioned breeze – drinking in the cheers and howls of sopranos and tenors and gravelly bass voices that scrape along the floor of the arena.

There are hundreds of people here, all waiting for blood. She sees money changing hands, slips of paper disappearing into pockets, eyes measuring the fighters – will the heels break over the gauntlets? Will the claws shred Yang’s uniform?

The eyes linger on her prosthetic arm. For a second, it’s too much, too close, she can feel hundreds of cameras and the oppressive waves of boos cascading into the Coliseum.

Yang takes a deep breath, and punches herself in the gut. Heat flows off her body, as her Aura awakens.

The crowd goes silent.

“Xiao Long’s after a fight today!” Pipes says. “Look at her, raring for blood!”

 _I am stronger than you_ , she thinks, and takes a stance. _I did not break Mercury’s legs. I am smarter than you think._

“You wanted a rematch?” she asks, leveling Ember Celica at the twins’ faces. “Don’t go crying to Junior when it’s over.”

_Watch me, Mercury. I’m going after you._

“Doubtful. I’ve been waiting for this.” Miltia’s claws fan out between her fingers. “Miltia, shall we?”

“Oh yes, dear sister.” Melanie grins at the brawler, all sharp teeth and tight angles. “Ladies first,” she says, and kicks out.

 

Yang ducks the strike and thrusts out with her right arm, knocking away the ice-dressed girl’s leg. Ice curls down Melanie’s leg, freezing her to Yang’s gauntled arm. Melanie kicks out with her other leg, knifed heel almost scoring Yang’s unprotected thighs.

“We made a few upgrades,” Miltia says as she almost claws Yang’s face off. The black feathers set in her hair sing past the golden brawler's nose. “Not so tough, are you?”

“Just watch me!” she growls.

The golden brawler looses a burst of heat, melting off the ice prison. She blocks Melanie’s next strike with a round from Ember Celica – Yang is stronger, has always been stronger – she grabs Melanie’s arm and twists it. Miltia comes to the rescue, but Yang fires Ember Celica point blank at the wine-red girl’s face and Miltia must cartwheel away. Melanie is forced to weave around to attack Yang from behind to avoid the flurry of fists.

She can’t let that happen. Well, she could, but where's the fun in that?

Melanie lunges forward, ice crystals dancing along her fingers. Yang punches – once, twice – catching the ice-wine girl in the chest.

Air whooshes out of Miltia’s lungs. The other girl stumbles back on the four-inch high heels. Melanie lunges forward and Yang rolls away. The claws pass harmlessly over her golden head.

But it’s not enough to uproot the composed woman – Melanie regains her footing. She twirls, red-and-black tulle twisting around her waist – the crowd cheers as Melanie pulls her sister up and sends her flying towards Yang.

Miltia drops into a roll and lashes out at Yang’s legs – Melanie runs forward and swipes at Yang’s face.

“That the best you can do?” she asks, and punches herself in the chest.

Melanie’s claws cut three parallel lines across Yang’s cheeks – Miltia’s heels gore Yang’s left calf. Blood splatters over the white octagon.

“First blood to Miltia and Melanie!” Pipes announces. “It’s not looking good for those betting on Yang!”

The pain burns white hot in her veins as she refuses to let her Aura heal her wounds. She lets it sink into her soul’s power. Aura throbs in her chest to the beat of her heart, angry that she has denied it.

 _I don’t have to win this fight. Two more left_ , she thinks as Melanie’s foot connects with her chest. _Just hang on._

She gets in a punch here and there, but Melanie and Miltia are fleet-footed and quick-fingered. The crowd screams every time a new cut races across Yang’s body drawing blood as red as roses. She bites her tongue when Miltia’s claws connect with her chest, ripping her crop-top and the tender skin below. “ _Fuck, that hurts!_ ” she wants to scream, but only a wordless howl and a glob of blood come out. The blood splatters over the white bow perched on Melanie’s cleavage.

“Ew! Sister, it’s like we’re fighting an animal!”

“It’s gross indeed,” Miltia agrees, and swings.

Yang is knocked onto her back just as the buzzer rings.

“Round’s up! The fighters have one minute to pull themselves together!” Yang can almost hear the wince in Pipes’ voice. “Literally, in Yang’s case!”

 

There’s no coaches running out with bars of chocolate for one last burst of energy or towels to mop up the blood. And there's a lot of blood, smeared across the floor in thick strokes, or dripped along the white canvas from dizzying spins and dodges - all of it is hers. There’s not even a bottle of water sitting on the corners of the octagon.

Yang wishes she had either when she gets to her feet. Still, this suits her plan. The twins have wounded her, but the pain has coalesced into a hot bowl of Aura in the pit of her chest. When she lets go, it will consume her.

“-Odds for Yang are looking bad!” Pipes says. On the other side of the octagon, Miltia and Melanie preen. “Yup, that’s 1 to 10 for Xiao Long, our newest fighter, and it’s getting worse!”

The smile rises to her lips.

A bell rings, signaling the end of the break.

Melanie tosses the feather scarf over her shoulder. The spot of red gleams against her pale skin, right over her collarbones.

“Last bets in!” Pipes announces. “Fighters start when ready!”

“Lookin’ a little cut up, isn’t she?” Melanie asks as she takes a stance. “Sister, how long do you think she’ll last?”

“Against us?” Miltia smiles. “A minute or two.”

They dance forward: claws whirling, blades clicking against the blood-slicked floor.

Yang lets go. 

The Aura coiled in her chest swarms over her, healing every cut and regenerating the lost blood. Power surges through her veins. She glows – as bright as the sun, as deadly as a forest fire – and there is nothing to save Melanie and Miltia when they run face-first into her wrath.

Yang lashes out, fire licking the floor in her wake. A foot to the jaw sends Melanie flying – a punch to the chest sends Miltia to her knees. Miltia groans – the bubble of fluid in her voice – but fire roars in Yang’s ears, fed on by the cries of the crowd.

The golden brawler looks between the two – Miltia’s hurt more, but Melanie has farther to run – and gets a face full of black feathers as Miltia jumps to her feet. The two trade blows – red claws shrieking against golden gauntlets – a punch here, a stab there – Miltia tries to join the fray by stabbing Yang in the back of the knee but Yang is smarter now, she knows how to fight dirty.

Up, down, flash of brown leather skirt here, ribbons of golden fabric trailing in her wake - she trades blows and kicks for claws and spiked heels. Side to side, feint to the left, a slight slip in Yang's blood - Melanie dances on, almost like a ballerina with her graceful movements, but then she strikes like an owl darting over the tundra and it's clear that her silk hides steel. A stutter step to the left, a roll to the right - Miltia is speckled with Yang's blood, even if it blends almost seamlessly into her dress, but she fights on - claws here, a kick to the gut there.

The seconds tick by, narrated in Pipes' never-pausing, breathless voice.

"And Miltia takes a nasty black eye - her sister goes up to avenge her, but fuck! That's gonna hurt! She'll be nursing that bruise for days to come!"

The fight wears on. The twins begin to slow - although she has avoided their faces, the constant barrage of fists and bullets and fire has drained on the Aura protecting their bodies.

It’s over when Yang decides she’s had enough.

The twins are good, but Yang was trained to fight monsters the size of entire buildings.

The golden brawler sidesteps Miltia’s claws. The metal buries itself in her sister’s arm. Miltia cries out, and that’s when Yang strikes.

Aura sings through her body, turning the world red, black and white.

Yang punches Miltia, sending her flying, until her wine-red dress collides with the forefield and she ragdolls onto the blood-slicked floor. She catches Melanie’s spiked heels with her gauntled right arm, and jams Ember Celica right into Melanie’s gut.

She fires.

The rounds are dummies, but they still hurt like hell.

Melanie drops to the floor, groaning.

 

“And the twins are down! Ten, nine…” Pipes counts down. The twins struggle to get to their feet, but by the end of the countdown, they’re still crumpled on the floor. “Three, two annnnnd one! Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between! Tonight’s winner, Yang Xiao Long!”

Perhaps her bloodlust is infectious, and that is why the crowd is cheering instead of booing. But Yang doesn’t really care.

 _I’m back in business, baby_ , Yang thinks as she holds her bloodied gauntlets up. She looks for the glimpse of mint-green hair. There - a pair of magenta eyes, and mint-green hair nestled in the sea of black suits and blue overalls. _And I’m coming for you._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll fully admit that I don't understand betting or underground fighting rings. 
> 
> Featuring a surprise appearance by "oh. you again."
> 
> *Edited! Missed a part while posting this at 3 AM.


	15. Bear Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's strung up and ready to snap shut.

“Haven’t had a good fight like that in _ages_ , haven’t we, sister?” Melanie beckons to Yang. Her elbow knocks into the locker doors, but the ice-wine girl doesn’t seem to notice. “Yang, pass me the antiseptic.”

Yang opens up the cabinet behind the massive mirror lining the changing room wall. She looks over the unlabeled jars and pill bottles within. The Calisto nightclub has an underground changing room, stocked with everything from defibrillators to insulin pumps to plain ibuprofen. Honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if there was a fallout bunker below the club: Junior seems to be prepared for everything.

"It's on the bench," Miltia supplies.

The golden brawler picks up a translucent bottle. The silvery liquid within sloshes around: held up to the light, her bloody fingertips tint it pink. Her muscles scream in protest when she lowers her arm, as if to remind her, _"you just got the shit beat out of you earlier! Remember that? Bad times_."

“Ow. Would it kill you guys to label these?" She studies the contents. "For all I know, this could be sulfuric acid.”

“Harfang doesn’t, like, do that stuff here.” Miltia tapes a bandage over her thigh. “The waste would, like, summon the health authority over.”

Melanie shakes her head and ties off the line of stitches lacing her left arm. “They’re so concerned about mold in the offices, but if one of our brothers goes missing? Who, like, looks for them?

Yang tucks the info into her head. _Junior told me about that before. So hypothetically, if I took out Mercury… wouldn't have any police on my tail.  
_ She frowns. _Wouldn't work. Dad and I tried to kill Adam, and look where that got us. I need a professional._

“Uh, guys?" The golden brawler waves at the assortment of bottles on the changing room bench. Which bottle’s the antiseptic?”

_Maybe the twins know something._

“The one by your boots.” Melanie points a chipped nail. Her mouth twists in distaste. “Ugh. I’m taking the cut to fix this out of your paycheck, Yang.”

“Over my dead body.”

"Urgh, dead bodies are the worst," Miltia says.

"Wouldn't wish it on, like, my worst enemy." Melanie dabs at the glob of blood on the bow of her dress. "It takes forever to get the smell out of your clothes."

Yang hands over the antiseptic. “Just kidding. Take what you need, it’s not like I need that much cash.”

_I still have to support dad. Junior made me that promise, but there's no telling what he'll do if he finds out. I should open up a savings account._

"Money is always nice," Miltia says, "but I'd rather save up for something nice. You, dear sister?"

“I don’t want money, I want action.” Melanie pours the antiseptic onto a wad of cotton and offers it to Yang. “Put those on your cuts, right, sister?”

“I don't think you have a medical degree, dear sister.”

“I know what I’m doing!” Melanie snaps.

Yang takes the cotton and dabs the blood from her face. The Yang staring back at her is wilder – a bit cut up, a bit battered, but definitely not broken.

She likes the new Yang.

 

“I hope Junior sends us out soon,” Miltia says. “I need a good fight.”

“Always the bloodhound, aren’t you?” Melanie passes Miltia an icepack from a cooler.

“I would have died of boredom in that hospital!” Miltia tucks an icepack between her skin and the bandages encircling her chest. The wine-red girl sighs contentedly. “I thought I saw that Emerald girl – remember her? Quick fingered, that one.”

“Mint-green hair? Magenta eyes? Dark skin?” Yang pulls a sweatshirt branded with the Calisto logo over her head. It smells faintly of gooseberries.

“Oh yes. Occasionally Roman’s old business partners come by the ring.” Melanie beckons to Yang. Her voice drops down into a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t really like Emerald Sustrai around these parts. She steals from our patrons. But Emerald has powerful people backing her, so we’re under orders to not confront her. Just steal the money back.”

“Maybe the Magpies got sick of her,” Miltia says. "Maybe Roman didn't want her anymore."

“Maybe. She was probably picking their pockets.”

“Maybe Junior will send us on a heist.” Miltia stretches and slides a fond finger over her newly polished claws. “Oh, I’d love the challenge.”

“But we just returned from sick leave.” Melanie shakes her head. “Junior needs us to guard him.” She looks at Yang, bright green eyes gleaming like those of a cat ready to pounce. “Unless you took our place?”

“As a bodyguard?” Yang points to her prosthetic arm. “Pretty sure people will get jumpy and start pulling out guns with this around.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “You’re on his payroll, moron. He’s looking into bringing in a professional from Atlas for you.”

“He thinks really highly of you,” Miltia adds. “Yang this, Yang that–"

“Like a teenage boy,” Melanie scoffs, "-exactly like that horrid blue-haired boy who came in with you - Neptune, was it?"

"I forget," Yang says.

“But we’d love to go out and do… other jobs,” Miltia says. “If only we didn't need to train Morpho Black when she gets back. Ugh. Teaching is the worst.”

"Isn't it Harfang's job to teach?" Yang tugs on a pair of sneakers, bought with her new paycheck.

"If the job doesn't require a woman's touch," Miltia states.

“She should already have some training." Melanie stops daubing the blood from her dress and sighs. “She’s from the Brotherhood of Black. It's no use, I'll have to send this to the drycleaner's.”

“Have I seen her before?” Yang asks.

“She’s working the streets.” Miltia shrugs. “She’ll come in when Junior wants her to.” The wine-red girl buttons up the pistol holster on her thigh. “Keep it in mind?”

“I’ll think about it,” Yang says, but her mind’s racing at a thousand miles an hour.

She has an in.

 _I need to get closer to Morpho_ , she decides.

 

* * *

 

The club has already closed by the time Yang gets back to the ground floor. She helps sweep the broken glass and blood off the dance floor: “a group of very hyper teenage girls,” Pipes says with a grimace, “with bigger mouths than livers.”

“We’re gonna get sued for this,” she sighs.

“They’re Huntresses.” Pipes spits out the name as if it were poison on her tongue. “They take what they want, and we can’t do a thing.”

"Sorry." She rolls out the vacuum cleaner onto the floor. "I was kind of a jerk."

"Eh, par for course. At least you actually said sorry. You wouldn't believe how many Huntsmen stroll in here and threaten to rough us up." Pipes turns on the vacuum. With each pass of the vacuum, the dance floor has less shining, glimmering, deadly glass dust refracting the red and white overhead lights. "Yeah, sure, the Huntsmen kill a bunch of Grimm, but they don't do shit for the communities. It's really sad when guys like me are doing more."

"Helping old ladies cross the street?" Yang drags the mop from its bucket and washes the last stain from the floor. "Do we get boy scout badges for that?"

"Actually, we do. The former, not the latter."

"Seriously?"

Pipes cocks his head. The dance lights play over the blue of his hair, rippling like the variegated patterns on the sea floor. "Haven't you heard? North Vale's under martial law because of the Grimm. We've been smuggling medicine and food in for the last few days."

"I didn't hear anything about that."

"Yeah, that's because people gotta keep mum. Last time, we got hit by Grimm because some kid stirred up shit. Morpho pulled us outta the fire that time, but man, when the police showed up, shit hit the fan." The vacuum stops whirring. Pipes begins to wind the cord around his palm. "Wanna join us?"

_Morpho's there, but so are the police. At least I could get to know her._

"Where do you meet up?"

"Everyday at 11 AM, in the loading dock. Shad's running it - he's a great guy, you'd love him."

"I'm down." Yang looks at the clock. "Anything left?"

Pipes points at the bar. “If you wipe off the tables, I’ll lock up the place.”

“Deal. Have a good one, Pipes.”

“You too, Yang,” the sapphire-haired man calls over his shoulder.

 

Yang heads to the back of the club. Harfang and Junior are by the bar: Junior counting the cash, Harfang taking inventory. A fat conical package wrapped in brown paper sits on the counter top between them. She keeps an ear on the conversation between them as she sprays down the tables.

Harfang bottles up the Mistralian grappa. “-wanna promote Pipes, he’s doing good work–“

“Too young, and too chatty,” Junior says. “Might send the Malachites out.”

“Too valuable,” Harfang retorts. He slots the bottle onto its rack and scribbles something onto his Scroll. “Maybe Black, once she gets some training in.”

Junior grunts and closes the register. “The new CCT up?”

“Grimm brought it down.”

“Go figure.” The bearded bartender blew out a breath. “How many of ours aren’t coming back?”

“Ask Dimitry, he’s got a better handle on that.”

“Remind me: what do I pay you for?”

Harfang cracks his knuckles. “When you need a hammer.”

“More like a battering ram,” Junior mutters. “No, don’t make the fucking joke.”

“Oh come on, I’m hilarious.”

"No, you're not." Metal squeaks as Junior repositions the emergency rifles under the bar. “Not in the mood.”

“Whatever floats your boat, kid.” Harfang wipes down the taps with a stained tea towel. “Docks just resumed business. Smoothed it over with the CE, fucking bureaucrats can’t get the fucking heads outta their asses.” Yang finishes cleaning the last table and heads towards the bar. “Should get a shipment at 11– hey kiddo,” Harfang says, looking up. “Had a good fight?”

Yang waves her hand. “Flexed some muscles, stoked the crowd, gained a bit of cash for you guys. How are those pockets feeling?”

“We’ll make an Arcturus out of you in no time.” Harfang makes to ruffle her hair, but she easily sidesteps. "You'll make me feel old if you keep dodging, kid."

"Do you know how much conditioner this needs?" she asks, shaking her long locks.

"That's what sugar daddies are for." Junior claps the white-haired man on the back. “Fuck you too, kid. Too much?”

“For once in your life, shut up,” Junior growls, pointedly not looking at Yang. He rolls a wad of lien into a cardboard tube, then opens up the safe. “Do whatever you want, Blondie, as long as it brings us cash. Your winnings are in your bank account.”

“Did I do something?” Yang asks, pointing at the bearded bartender. “When did he get all pissy?”

Harfang tosses his head back, caught in the throes of a deep belly laugh. “Junior’s just mo–“

Junior’s right hand goes to the bat by the counter.

“ _Harfang Anatolyevich Medvedev_.”

“All right, all right, cool your fucking tits, Junior. This package’s for you, kiddo.” Harfang gestures at the countertop. “We ran a scan. No bombs, no poison, no drugs… pretty fucking boring.”

Yang undoes the frayed twine closing the package - _butcher’s twine_ , she notes, _whoever sent this either had a theme or was short on cash_. “Starting to reconsider my employment,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “At least Grimm kill you face to face.”

“I still wanna check those petals.” Junior kicks the safe closed and crouches behind the counter. The lock's many tumblers click into place. “You never know. Biological agents. Slow acting poisons. Nerve gas. Our _pals_ are getting smarter.”

“You peeked?” Yang tears the tape off. It’s thin and clear, like the kind that seals the packets of fish fillets sold by trawlers at the Vale docks. “Man, a girl can’t get any privacy these days.”

Junior huffs. “Look, Blondie, I don’t want to lose one of my best employees to some dumbass assassin–“

“Best employee?” Harfang puts a hand on his heart. “You’ll bleed me dry, Junior. I thought we had something special.”

“I swear to God, Harfang,” Junior says, “you couldn’t pour the piss out of a boot if there were instructions on the heel.”

“Loosen up, kid.” The gold-eyed man nods at Yang. “It’s a buncha flowers. Nothing special.”

Yang finishes unfurling the many layers of butcher paper. She stares.

 

A bouquet of sunflowers sits on the counter top. Each flower is a riot of yellow petals – cream, butter, gold, spotlight yellow, midday sun – all encircling the swirl of chocolate-colored seeds. The blooms are small, no bigger than an orange – _a bit underfed too_ , she thinks as she touches a yellowing leaf, _maybe needs zinc. Summer would know. She always knew._

Tying the blooms together is a long black ribbon, with a card dangling from the hole-punched ends.

 

> _The sunflower bathes its flesh in golden oil, languidly craning up so high - oh how small the sun” – Yugure Maeda_.
> 
> _Sunflowers, for the one who has eyes only for the recipient, and passionate love within their heart._

 

There's no signature.

 

Harfang peeks over her shoulder. The grin on his face only widens. “Looks like Yang’s got a secret admirer, and it’s not–”

The bearded bartender slaps Harfang over the head.

The pale man just laughs and shoves Junior away. "Somebody's jealous!"

Yang touches the ribbon. It’s soft and well worn, about three-inches thick. She undoes the bow and smells it.

Nothing.

A hint of disappointment wells up in her chest.

“What the hell!” Junior almost rips the ribbon out of her hand. “Blondie, there could be anthrax on that! I’m paying you to not die these days!”

“Do you know who sent it?” Yang asks.

“Yeah, some girl with black hair and dragonfly wings.” Harfang shrugs. “No tats, no scars, wearing a simple black dress. The dragonfly girl said the package was for Yang Xiao Long, and that she was sorry.”

“Bandages exist,” Junior says in a long-suffering tone. “She could’ve covered up a White Fang insignia.”

Harfang taps his cheekbones. “Do I look like I’ve got eagle eyes?”

“Owl eyes, maybe,” Junior retorts. “Only work well in the dark.”

“I’m not sure that’s true of real owls,” Yang says as she touches the sunflowers. “Junior, I thought you didn’t want Faunus around?”

“Blondie, I never said that. Bad for business,” Junior says. “I just don’t want to cuddle up to anyone. Stay neutral, stay safe.”

“If she was any threat, I would’ve smashed her face in,” Harfang says. “The Faunus girl seemed to know you, kiddo. Junior here ran the package through six different scanners.”

Yang thinks back to the girl she saved.

“Probably do. We’ve never talked.”

Junior glares at Harfang. “ _Someone_ decided it was safe enough for you to open it up, and see what you made of it. I disagreed, because I actually care about the health of my employees.”

“You’re like a fucking dad.” Harfang takes out a cigarette. “Wanna trade kids? You might be better with mine, it’ll be practice if you wanna–“

“Fuck, no.” Junior gestures at Yang. “See the shit I put up with?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna go with, _I’m done for the day_. Sorry, boss-man. You’re on your own.”

Junior puts a hand over his heart. “Everyone’s deserting me.”

“Then go and–“ Harfang’s next words are muffled by Junior’s hand.

Yang picks up the bouquet. “See you tomorrow, Junior. Night, sir.”

“Night, Blondie,” Junior replies and pulls the older man into a head-lock. “Harfang, seriously, shut up! I’m gonna dock your paycheck!”

"As if you would, kid–"

"Watch me!"

The golden-haired brawler shakes her head and leaves the club, a small smile on her lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Experimenting with shorter chapters. Was this too exposition heavy? 
> 
> Next up: don't let their faces fool you. These men ruled the Underworld long before you were born.


	16. Snake in the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you play the game of crime, be sure that your allies are actually on your side.

She tromps up the apartment stairs at 2 AM: sore, a little confused, but overall content. The sunflowers bloom in the dim corridor light, bright splotches of gold in the otherwise bland hallway. Her stomach grumbles. Yang briefly considered grabbing something from a convenience store. But after an encounter with a fairly pushy police officer ( _these guys are incompetent assholes_ , Yang decided), she has decided to hit the hay. There will surely be breakfast tomorrow.

Yang shudders, and looks around.

There are eyes on her back.

The apartment door squeaks open: _I should get these hinges oiled_ , she muses, _before I wake up kids in Atlas._ Yang locks the door, and listens for footsteps just in case.

No noise in the corridor.

Nobody followed her home. 

_I'm just imagining things_ , Yang decides. She kicks off her boots and sets them next to a pair of leather loafers.

 

Steam hisses in the kitchen. Pots and pans clatter against the stovetop, as Dimitry juggles his attention between a variety of bubbling liquids and the chopping board. His cane rests against the oven, unused. The older man mumbles to himself in a language that flows off his tongue: thick like porridge, but surprisingly melodic. 

“Sorry I’m back late.” Yang pokes her head into the kitchen. The man looks haggard as he potters around: dark strands of hair matted to his forehead, cheeks gaunt, deep blue shadows under his eyes… “Did I wake you up?”

“Not at all. I just returned from work.” He slides a wad of frozen noodles in the pot of boiling water. “Have you had dinner?”

Yang puts the bouquet of sunflowers onto her shoes. “I don’t wanna be a bother.”

“You wouldn’t. Could we have a talk as I cook, Ms. Xiao Long?” Dimitry gestures to the dining table. “Please, take a seat.”

She feels her bruises and bandages. “Yeah, sure, I guess, but I’m more–“

Dimitry’s tone is suddenly flinty. “Don’t argue with me."

Yang sits. Her muscles groan in protest.

“I have always been willing to give second, and even third chances,” Dimitry states. He sets a long flank of raw tuna onto a bamboo cutting board. An iridescent shimmer plays over the light pink flesh. “That is my job in Junior’s… organization.”

The golden brawler starts. “What did I do wrong, and how can I fix it?”

“Yang, please don’t interrupt me."

The golden brawler stays quiet.

“You assaulted my protégé, severely injured many of his employees, and cost us thousands in damage.” Dimitry primes his knife. With a swift, sleek stroke, he slices off a fat slab of tuna. “Before the invasion of Beacon, others had tried to harm Junior in a similar manner.  Had you not been both a Huntress and the daughter of one, I would have had you killed.”

Yang lets the words sink in.

“The people who trained you protected you.” The knife rocks back and forth on the cutting board, neatly chopping off thin translucent rings from the green onions stalks. “Being a Huntress has its privileges. You have chosen to forsake those privileges. In Junior’s world, you will have no such protection. If, in the course of your plans, you hurt the Arcturus, I will be forced to report you to Junior. He will decide… an appropriate course of action.”

The implication hung in the air: _“and let him decide if you should die._ ”

 _Wait. He knows what I’m doing?_ Yang bites down hard on her lip. _I have to be more subtle_. _I can’t die yet._

“That being said, I am willing to trust that you have good intentions, no matter what you plan.” Dimitry arranges the tuna in a spiraling rose on the emerald-green plate. The light plays on the ring tattoos decorating his fingers as he sprinkles green onions atop the tuna. “There will be many eyes on you. I suggest you walk carefully. Understood?”

Yang opens her mouth to say, “ _gotcha_ ”, but the familiarity seems flippant. Especially when dealing with a man who can make her disappear.

“Yes, chief,” she says instead.

 

Dimitry stirs the noodle broth, with a long ladle shaped like a plesiosaur Grimm. “Now, would you like some dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

“You just fought in a tournament.” He points the ladle at her. “Eat something healthy, and get your strength back.”

"Yes chief."

She accepts the plate of tuna sashimi.

 _Basic Patchian courtesy. Take the food that people offer you. That’s what dad taught me._ Yang prods at the tuna with a chopstick. _But I don’t really wanna eat. Even though I’m really hungry… Why should I trust him? Maybe he’s trying to poison me_.

Silence sits over the kitchen.

“I’m not Harfang, Yang. I would never poison a guest under my roof.” Dimitry doesn’t look up from the ivory-colored fish balls rising and falling in the bubbling water. “Harfang may stoop that low, but I will not.”

“Good to know. Everyone wants to kill me,” Yang grumbles.

“It is a way of the life you have chosen.” Dimitry spoons a thick lump of miso from an earthenware container. He ladles a bit of soup into a small bowl, and begins to whisk the paste. His shoulders slump. “Are you sure, Yang? It’s not too late to turn back. We can wipe your records from our systems – you can still be a Huntress, you can still have a good life–”

“I’ve made my decision.”

He bows his head. “As you wish.”

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen once more, buoyed only by the bubble of pots on the range.

“You didn’t seem the kind to like raw fish,” Yang says, as she picks up a slice of tuna. She pours some soy sauce into a small bowl shaped like a leaf.

“I don’t.” Dimitry turns on the element. With a click, flames leap out from the circle of metal. “My daughter and wife did. It was cheaper then going to sushi restaurants every night.”

 _Past tense._ Yang remembers the background on the elder man’s Scroll. _Something happened to his daughter, but his wife?_

“Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?” Yang gestures vaguely in the direction of the bedroom. “I mean, there’s all those posters and pictures. I’m guessing this apartment belonged to someone important.”

“My daughter has no use for these rooms anymore.” Oil hisses out from the sprayer in his right hand, coating the pan in a thin layer. “Although these are her apartments, I am their legal owner now. Normally, they would be redistributed to a member in need.” Dimitry laughs, but there is no humor in his voice. He sets slabs of tuna onto the hot pan. “Junior has followed Harfang’s teachings more than mine, in that regard. And I have decided you have a greater need than Aigis.”

 _He taught Junior?_ Yang eats another slice of tuna. Blake would have loved it. _So criminals have a sort of school. Dimitry follows a different one than Harfang. Huh. I have to be careful. I don't want to piss both of them off.  
_

“You’re not very friendly with Harfang,” she says, testing the waters.

“That would be correct.” Dimitry ladles the whisked miso into the pot of noodles. “Soup?”

Her stomach grumbles loudly.

Yang pokes her belly. "Shush, you."

"Too late." Dimitry turns off the heat. He grabs a tea towel to protect his hands, then tips the contents of the pot into a ceramic bowl. 

 

The elder man sets the bowl before her. Steam rises from the cream-colored soup in lazy whorls. Bits of shrimp and tofu bob in the hot seas, like little buoys for the seaweed nets swirling beneath them. Dace paste balls – spongy and spiced with darts of thyme – swim beneath the forest of seaweed. Thick udon noodles crest out of the soup, only to be tugged back under by chunky dregs of bok choy. A sprinkling of green onions sits on the white-and-gold boat of a halved egg.

“It’s still hot." He sets the tea towel on the sink counter. "Give it a minute.”

“You’re like my dad.” Yang blows on the soup. “My semblance is fire! I’ll be fine.”

“Forgive me.” Dimitry ladles out a bowl of soup for himself. Using a spatula, he scrapes the fried fish into his bowl. “It is my role to look after Junior’s men. I should not patronize you.”

“I’m eighteen, I’ve fought terrorists and monsters the size of skyscrapers.” Suddenly exhausted, Yang sinks into the wooden chair. A year ago, she was wondering if she could ask Blake out to the Vytal Festival. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I’m sorry. I have underestimated you.” Dimitry brings over a kettle and sets it on the table. “May I sit?”

The golden brawler waves a hand at the chair before her. Dimitry seats himself and begins to eat.

For some time, the only noise in the kitchen comes from the wet slurp of noodles and the hollow ring of ceramic against ceramic. 

“How are you finding your employment?” the accountant asks. “On good terms with your coworkers?”

Yang shrugs and tosses golden locks over her shoulder. The ends of her hair still dip into her soup. She huffs, and brushes her hair away. “Surprisingly so. Since I kinda beat them up, I’m a little surprised more people aren’t out for my blood.”

“They used to be.” Dimitry twines a length of noodle around his chopsticks, as if he were knotting a noose. “Saving their lives wiped out the debt across all of the Arcturus. He who saves a life saves his own. An old thief’s law.”

Yang has an opening.

“See, stuff like that worries me.” She plucks a fish ball from the soup and chews it slowly. _Dust, I remember when dad used to fry these and stuff them in my sandwiches._ “I’m new to all this.”

Dimitry snorts. He grabs a tissue and covers his mouth.

"Pardon me," he says once he recovers, "but I doubt that."

“I am!”

Dimitry shakes his head. The white scars along his neck gleam in the kitchen light. “People _new_ to the business know Junior only as a club manager.”

“What can I say?" Yang spreads her arms, almost knocking her bowl over. "Word on the street is that if you ask the right people, you’ll get the answers you want.

His head bobs in a sharp, abbreviated nod. “And?”

“Well, I don’t wanna end up in a blood debt or in cement shoes because I didn’t kiss someone’s hand.” She scratches her head. “Could I ask you some questions so I… you know, don’t end up dead?”

Dimitry’s brow furrows. He looks at the potted plants sitting on the countertop.

“I suppose there’s no harm.” Dimitry’s gaze returns to hers. “Be warned, however, that some stories are not for me to tell.”

Yang shrugs. “Fair enough. So, what’s the story between you and Harfang?”

“You are certain that you will join the Arcturus.”

“Duh.”

 

Dimitry gets up and retrieves a bottle of vodka from a nearby cabinet. He cracks the top off and takes a large gulp.

“How old are you? Eighteen?” he asks, wiping the corners of his mouth.

“Sure am. Why, is that important?”

The black-haired man waves at the balcony doors, where Vale lies sleeping. Between the blinds, Yang can faintly see the flash of red and blue police lights. “During the Dust robberies, did you ever wonder why the police were so incompetent?”

Yang scratches her head. “I… never really thought they did much. I mean, I did help catch Roman Torchwick.”

“That is not a coincidence. Before you were born, Harfang Medvedev ruled Vale as head of the Arcturus Gang. Seventeen different factions called Vale home, and yet Harfang united them under his banner.” Dimitry swirls his soup with his pair of gold-inlay chopsticks. “It is difficult to unite an entire criminal underworld, when there are turf wars and ideological conflicts. Harfang managed it, through… unsavory means.”

“How bad?”

Dimitry levels a flat stare at the golden brawler. “Let me give you an example. A man from the Sienna Gang was not paying his gambling debts. He wanted to keep the money for his child’s education. Harfang kidnapped the man and his wife, then personally cut the baby from the wife’s belly. The man watched his wife bleed to death. When the Sienna Gang attempted to avenge the man's wife, he had them all hung, drawn, and eaten alive by rats.”

Yang somehow manages to close her mouth.

“That’s horrible!”

“That was par for the course with the Arcturus. Criminals are known to be violent, but Harfang was exceptionally so. His violence was only matched by his gluttony and anger - that is how he got his sobriquet, Papa Bear."

"But bears are terrible dads. They kill cubs that aren't their own!"

Dimitry looks at her over the rim of his vodka bottle.

Her stomach sinks. The teasing, boisterous man she knows from work… _You wouldn't know from just looking at him._ Panic wells up in her belly. _What else haven't I seen?_ Then, _what if Dimitry's lying to me. He's not friendly to Harfang. He could be trying to get me on his side._

"If you doubt me, look up the Slingshot Dock Murders," Dimitry says. "Sixty-eight children. All found drowned in the harbor."

His turquoise eyes go hard. "Harfang had everyone who opposed him silenced, and everyone who wronged him… you have the idea.” Dimitry takes another swig of vodka. “Vale’s police department is so crippled because Harfang had the good, upstanding cops killed. It was said that becoming a police officer was signing your death sentence. They have grown soft in the interim since his imprisonment, and subsequent release. They have forgotten the terror Harfang waged upon these streets.” 

“Who on Remnant would let him out?” Yang asks, shaking her head. “There’s – there’s limits to how horrible a person can be!”

Dimitry holds up his right hand, and rubs his thumb and index together.

Yang makes a face. “Of course.” 

Dimitry laughs. “You get used to it. Harfang waltzed out a few thousand lien short, took a new identity, and scrubbed his past from the face of Remnant.”

“So where do you come in?” Yang asks.

 

“I had an empire, shall we say, and there was money in Vale’s ports.” Dimitry’s shoulders go rigid. Venom seeps into his voice. “I met Harfang under the guise of business. But his streets were lawless, ruled by incompetent gangbangers who had power only because he liked them. It mattered not if you were competent. Many criminals’ potentials were squandered. Money was wasted, innocent lives were taken… it was no way to run an Underworld.” He smiles. “I undid a decade of his work, took over the Arcturus, and did my best to make Vale a better place.”

Yang has the feeling many people died to make that come true.

“And Junior…?”

“Not for me to say,” Dimitry says immediately. “Ask himself, if you so dare.”

The golden brawler sips at her soup.

Dimitry swirls his soup until the egg yolk melts into the beige dust of miso paste. “Any regrets?”

“I just… wow. I never thought criminals cared about their cities.”

“And why not? What good comes from terrifying your citizens?” Dimitry shakes his head. “There are two ways to rule a city, Yang. The easy way is always violence. Make people fear you, kill everyone who opposes you, and you will have all the riches you desire and the power you crave. But there will always be discontents. You must constantly stamp out those who seek to unseat you.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a game of thrones.”

“It is, if you make it so.” Dimitry spreads his hands. “Law and crime are two sides of the same coin, Yang. You must have one to have the other. Criminals have their courts–“

“Wait, what? Isn’t that the complete opposite of what… you know, criminals do?”

“Criminals too, have disputes that need resolving.” Dimitry undoes the top button of his shirt, and pulls the fabric aside. A sixteen-point star, done in smudged black ink, rests just under the left wing of his collarbone.

“I’m guessing that tattoo has a meaning,” Yang says, squinting. She can barely make out the tiny words in loopy writing trailing from the tips of the star.

“This tattoo is only earned by _vor y zakone_. Thieves in law, in Harfang’s cant. Justicars, in Mistralian. It is pointless to fight over turf and profits with guns. You risk hurting innocents. It is far better to bring the matter before a Justicar, a third party, to resolve the issue without bloodshed.”

“You’re with Junior,” Yang says, “how can you be neutral?”

“A Justicar listens to both parties, and rules appropriately, regardless of his affiliation. But a Justicar only has power if he has earned the trust of those who serve him, and that includes the communities.” Dimitry looks thoughtfully at the bottle of vodka. “I believe that is enough for now. May I ask you something?”

“I guess, since I’m going twenty questions on you.”

“Why did you become a Huntress?”

 

Yang unfurls a slice of tuna from the rose. She dips it into soy sauce. The fish is heavy and fatty on her tongue.

“Honestly… it was in my family.” Yang looks down. “Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, and it’s not noble at all, but I wanted adventure and action. My si– my friend was the perfect Huntress. She wanted to go out and help people – don’t get me wrong, I wanted that too, but it wasn’t the only reason I became a Huntress.”

“My daughter thought similarly to your friend,” Dimitry says. “She was ashamed of her father. Pursued law, rather than crime.”

“Pipes and the rest are all so negative about Huntresses. Why would your daughter–“

“Aigis,” Dimitry says softly. “Her name was Aigis.”

“–Why would Aigis think differently?”

“For one, she didn’t associate with my men,” Dimitry says dryly. “What sort of father would do that? I… may have told her stories of Harfang’s rule. She was disenchanted with the police. Aigis saw hope in the Huntresses.” He falls quiet and looks at the crystals scattered over the dining room table. “I hope her faith was not misplaced.”

Yang nods. She sips at her soup.

Dimitry finishes off the last piece of salmon. “Why did you seek out Junior in the first place?”

“I wanted to find my mother.”

He offers her the vodka bottle. “Your tone suggests it did not go well.”

Yang takes a swig. The alcohol burns on the way down.

“I thought she was a better person.” 

The dark-haired man makes a face. “Ah. That sort of meeting.”

 “I don’t want to talk about it.” Yang bites down on the egg white caught between her chopsticks. The egg squeaks between her teeth. “So why is Junior the boss?”

“Junior challenged me for the leadership of the Arcturus.” Dimitry shakes his head and chuckles. “He was very young, impetuous, naïve… and he had Harfang whispering nonsense into his ear. A waste of talent.” The fond grin fades from his face. “I was getting older, and managing my empire was becoming more difficult. Although I won the duel, I offered to tutor him in the ways of a proper criminal. Harfang ruled in Junior’s stead during those days – Junior’s insistence. The boy was overly fond of his mentor. When he was confident enough, Junior challenged Harfang.” Dimitry finishes the bottle of vodka in a single gulp. Despite the alcohol content, his hands remain steady as ever. “And that, as they say, is history.”

“So… you do a bit of everything. Mentoring, advising, business…”

“It helps to have your ear to the ground.” He nods. “Stupid men die quickly in this line of business.”

 _Great. So I gotta get smart._ Yang restrains a sigh. _That’s more Blake’s business._

The golden brawler finishes her bowl and sinks into her chair. The warm bed and soft pillows call to her, but she has one last question.

“Miltia and Melanie told me that they have orders to steal back whatever Emerald Sustrai pickpockets. Was she in the crowd tonight?”

He hesitates. “A woman similar to her was present.”

Yang raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think it was her?”

“Sustrai has never passed up an opportunity to pickpocket our premises.” Dimitry stares at the empty vodka bottle. He seems to come to a decision. “Reports say that she is in Mistral, with that Cinder woman. She seems to be a lieutenant, or a high-ranking official. I doubt Cinder would send Sustrai back here.”

The golden brawler nods. _Adam is most likely alive. The newspapers would have broadcasted it far and wide if he survived. If Emerald isn’t back, then Cinder probably didn’t value Adam that much._

“Remember what I said about your plans,” Dimitry says. His voice hardens. “I have killed many good men before. You will not be the first, nor the last.”

“I’m not planning anything.”

Dimitry taps his cheek. “You have a very expressive face. Keep that in mind.” He gets to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “You should retire for the night. I believe you wanted to accompany Pipes on the medicine run.

“Wait, how do you know? You weren’t even at the club!”

“I have ears,” he says mildly.

 _Gotta watch what I say_ , Yang thinks. “You should sleep too. You look terrible.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt it. Good night, Yang.”

“Night, Dimitry.”

 

Yang quickly brushes her teeth, then heads to bed. But sleep eludes her until the skies outside are a pale azure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot I cut from the scene, including graphic details of Harfang's rule and how Junior met Harfang. We haven't gone full Godfather yet. Yet.
> 
> Next up: Solar Flare, featuring Sun x Yang. Because Yang has so much love in her heart, but not everyone can hold her love.


	17. Interlude: Ouroboros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime follows patterns: the weak gain power, and kill the powerful, only to become those they hated and fall in turn.
> 
> That, and the chronicles of Hei "Junior' Xiong: the school girl with a crush.

Junior sat across from Topaz, keeping his glare trained on the other man. The South and Central Vale Captain’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses. On the other side of the room, Aza Specter and Caval Myosotis whispered to themselves in the rustling reedy tones of South Vale. Their weapons lay on the table in front of them: a heavy bat that could transform into a rocket launcher, a series of linoleum knives, two twining knives that could transform into pistols – most likely stolen from a dead Huntsman, and a rifle/sword combo – most likely provided by a crooked Huntsman. All in all, it was a very uncomfortable situation, which could have been avoided. 

They were in a small room for this purpose, no bigger than 25 meters across and 10 meters wide, under the Valerian Casino. Normally, it would have served as a VIP lounge for very well-paying guests. These days, the best paying guests you could get were fellow criminals.

Thick, wine-colored carpet with a bushel of valerian motif covered the floor. The walls were lined with gorgeous tapestries depicting bouquets and birds, all caught in perpetual motion within the rainbow of threads. There were four visible entrances into the room: two double doors, big enough for a ballroom, and two doors tucked neatly into the walls for servants and waiters. Beneath the massive ebony table, there was a trapdoor that led to an escape tunnel – supposedly, in case of earthquake, but the tunnel had been used for less noble means many times in the past. Over the table hung a delicate chandelier, crystal droplets hanging from its arches like a shower of frozen rain. It swung gently in the air-conditioned room. It could be rigged to fall – the chandelier was much lighter than it looked, so there was no risk of crushing the men escaping through the trapdoor below. However, the glass droplets would create quite the show, and slow any pursuers.

Specter, the casino’s owner, had already led Junior through the room in a gesture of good faith. “ _No bugs or fish here_ ,” she had said with a grin. Indeed, there were no fish-eye cameras planted around the room. Junior had expected that. To do so was a massive breach of faith that would earn even the head of a very wealthy criminal organization a lovely pair of cement shoes.

Dimitry cleared his throat. At the head of the room, the elderly man stood, gripping his cane in both hands.

“Affiliations.”

As was tradition, the least powerful in the room went first.

“Shiloh Topaz, Arcturus Captain.” Topaz leaned back in his chair.

“Caval Myosotis.” She clapped a hand to her breast. Junior thought back to what he had heard of her: fairly well established lieutenant, comfortably looking at a promotion to _capo_ of the HG-108. She was best known for poisoning her enemies. Had Specter not followed the old rules and brought the dispute to the Thieves’ Court, Topaz would have been in the ICU coughing out his guts. “Lieutenant of the HG-108, subset of the Moonflower.”

“Aza Specter, head of the Moonflower Cartel.” The head waved a lazy hand. She was a good friend of Harfang, sharing similar tastes in violence ( _and_ , Junior thought with a shudder, _his bed._ ) Rumor had it that she was thinking of expanding her territory into Arcturus zones if Harfang kicked the bucket. ( _Damn you, Harfang, we could’ve avoided this if you didn’t stick your dick in every hole possible_.) “I can’t wait to get this over with. It’s 3 fucking AM, Caval.”

“Would be easier if the Arcturus stopped waving their dicks everywhere, sir,” Myosotis retorted.

Specter chuckled. “Only some of them, but the ones who do… they’re worth it, dear lieutenant. Perhaps we should have resolved this _differently._ ”

 _Did not need to hear that,_ Junior chanted. _Did not need to hear that._

“Hei Xiong, head of the Arcturus Gang,” Junior said when the image of Specter suggesting an orgy – probably coked out in this very room – had left his mind.

Dimitry held out his right hand, and made a fist. The gesture prominently displayed the variety of ring tattoos decorating his fingers. The old man came from a different stock of criminal, and the memory quickly sobered Junior. Here in Vale, tattoos were handed out like candy to mark criminals as the property of a gang or cartel. Dimitry was from Mistral, back where the mafia members could only earn their tattoos by going to prison. The tattoo decorating his left index was an ornate ring, with a crown of thorns set in a cabochon of blue ink on its front. That tattoo was given only to executioners of fellow criminals.

Although Dimitry had sided with the Arcturus as an advisor, pissing him off would most likely be the last thing anyone lower ranked than Harfang did.

“I swear by my ink that the participants of this meeting will be kept anonymous, the contents therein kept secret, and the decisions fair and just. This meeting will never be recorded, but will be followed as if carved in stone. I will not retaliate based on the judgments passed. If I break the laws of thieves, may I be outcast and suffer the punishment of my peers.”

The room mumbled the oath after the Justicar.

“Very well.” Dimitry sat. The velvet-backed chair hissed against the back of his suit. “Who comes before the court?”

 

Myosotis stood and opened her hands, showing that she was unarmed. The twining vines of morning glory tattooed up her forearms – the Valean symbol of a cartel lieutenant, specializing in drug trade – shone in the harsh neon light.

“The HG-108, subset of the Moonflower, does.”

“The complaint?”

The two criminal bosses watched silently as Myosotis outlined the situation: Topaz had been pushing ketamine and barbituates in the Datura district of Central Vale. As Junior had ordered, Topaz had not sold any to school-age children ( _no profit in kids anyways, go after their parents if you want money. Besides, it makes you look like a low-life criminal._ ) But Topaz had started to push at the local university on the borders of Arcturus territory ( _doubt college students have any more money, you’d be better off selling Adderall or cheap booze._ ) The university also had a medical school attached – nothing special, but drop-outs often became employees of the HG-108.

“Not only was the Arcturus selling on HG-108 territory,” Myosotis marked out the borders on a map of Central Vale, “but suppliers under Moonflower rule have been selling better product – cheaper! than to their own protectors. The Arcturus have undermined the Moonflower’s rule in the Datura district. Profit is down by fifteen percent, and these days, that’s enough to bring a group under.”

Dimitry nodded. “What is the restitution asked?”

“Repayment in full of the loss profit.” Specter yawned. “A night out with your Harfang–“

“Sir!” Myosotis protested.

“Only joking, dear lieutenant.”

Dimitry cleared his throat. “I ask that you remain professional, Ms. Specter.”

Specter smiled. There was a hint of steel in her lips. “As you wish, dear Justicar.”

Junior filed that away: _possible tension between Dimitry and Specter. Specter likes Harfang, so would probably be on his side if there was an upset. Must keep her away, mollify her, or get rid of her. I need Dimitry to scare other criminals away._

“Are there any arguments from the Arcturus?” Dimitry asked.

Topaz stepped in, and argued that the district historically belonged to the Arcturus, after Harfang’s historic – and bloody – takeover. (Junior muffled a sigh – if there was a problem that needed a scalpel, Harfang would never settle for anything less than going after it with a jackhammer.) They were providing better services and protection, and in turn received better product. Topaz had respected the borders by not selling on the campus itself, but instead in the community surrounding it.

“Bullshit!” Myosotis cried. “That’s as good as the university itself!”

Dimitry flipped through his Scroll. “While there are no official borders,” he said, “the community is generally accepted to be part of the university.”

It wasn’t looking good for the Arcturus. If Dimitry sided with the HG-108, the Arcturus would be paying out their collective asses with money they were only just beginning to recoup.

 _And Blondie's father might be caught in the balance_ , Junior thought as he focused on the debate. _I don't want to break that promise._

 

“Even if we were on the wrong side of the border, that does not excuse their actions. The HG-108 brought their racketeers in,” Topaz complained. “They roughed up half of our distributors and killed the rest. We just found the bodies of our men in the college’s science labs. They were using them for dissections!” He pointed at Myosotis. “The families don’t even know where their dead are. They don’t even know that they’re dead. They think their members are missing, or locked up in some jail. You owe them the truth, and you owe them the dignity you stole.”

“The Arcturus could have brought the HG-108 under,” Myosotis said. “It was just.”

For the first time, Junior spoke.

“You realize that undermines the entire reason we’re here, right? The point of this was to resolve the issue without _any further bloodshed_.” He looked at Topaz. “How many dead?”

“Fourteen, at the last count. We’re still going through the university and seeing if there’s any we missed.”

Dimitry frowned. “At the last count, the Arcturus only had twenty distributors in the Central District. What changed?”

Topaz settled against his desk. “We found six sons and daughters of the distributors. Bodies were shot up.” He pulled out a Scroll and brought up the pictures of the bodies. Some of the boys were only thirteen years old and missing half their skulls. “My guess is they got caught in the crossfire. Or… someone broke the rules, and went after their families.”

Junior felt sick. This could only escalate into further bloodshed. Killing family members unaffiliated with crime themselves – and the Arcturus had a policy of no legacy members, to keep every family safe – was a major violation of the Thieves’ Code. At this point, someone would have to die to set things right.

And to some degree, he felt personally responsible. His men trusted him to keep his word. They believed their families would be safe under the Arcturus umbrella. But through his inaction - and possibly Topaz fucking up – he had failed them.

“You have no proof of that,” Specter said. “You know how criminals are treated by the legal system. Your men’s autopsies and death reports are most likely rotting in some server somewhere.”

“True,” Junior agreed, “but it is against the Thieves’ Code to target families.”

“The distributors’ families lived in the area,” Myosotis said. “They were unfortunately caught in the crossfire.”

“That doesn’t make up for giving the corpses to the university,” Topaz argued. “If they were caught, then they should have been treated as murder victims, and given due burial!”

 

The argument escalated. Threats of violence were thrown around the room like a grenade with the pin pulled out. Autopsy reports and maps were bandied about like flails. At some point, Specter hinted that she would steal Harfang for her own Cartel (Junior quickly put a stop to that. Harfang was an ass, yes, but he was Junior’s mentor and Junior wanted him with the Arcturus where he belonged.)

Myosotis was on the verge of declaring war on the Arcturus, before Dimitry reminded her that as Justicar, he hadn’t yet passed a decision. Topaz was spitting, adamant that his men deserved proper burials and that the Arcturus’s misdemeanors should be forgiven in light of the HG-108’s reaction.

At some point, they stopped arguing and started posturing. Birds were flipped. Obscene words that would get you shanked in prison were spewed. Hands went to the weapons on the table. Myosotis and Topaz were arguing so closely, they looked more like they were doing some form of interpretive dance. It was ridiculous, and the state of crime these days.

 _Oh god, I’m getting old. I sound like Dimitry_ , Junior thought. 

Junior snuck a glance at the man in question. He had long since given up on appearances, and currently had his head in his hands.

 _Back in my day, we didn’t have no catfights,_ Junior thought. _We killed the people who opposed us! And by God, we liked it, until they killed us back, because that sucked!_

Specter sent the Arcturus boss an amused smile, like a mother cat presiding over her litter of kittens. She was enjoying the pandemonium a little too much for Junior’s liking.

Dimitry slapped the table.

“Enough!”

Silence fell over the room.

“Both parties are guilty, and I will not pass judgment as to who wronged the other more,” Dimitry said, standing. Myosotis shot the elderly man an angry glare. “I have decided the Arcturus have infringed on HG-108’s territory, though they did not purposely undercut the HG-108’s profits. That is merely business. The HG-108 have broken the Thieves’ Code by killing non-affiliated. 7.5 percent of the Arcturus’s profits in the Datura district will be surrendered to the HG-108 for three months. The HG-108 will surrender four of its best racketeers as wards to the Arcturus. The racketeers will permanently become members of the Arcturus as diplomats between the two parties. Failure to comply will end in the execution of the offending leader, regardless of affiliation.” Dimitry gripped his cane. “Am I understood?”

Myosotis made to argue. It was a very bad move – any argument should have come from her superior. Doing so undermined Specter’s authority – and judging by the look on Specter’s face, Myosotis would be paying for that once out of the room.

“If I haven’t made it clear enough: any retaliation will end in the stripping of the offending party’s rights,” Dimitry said in a flinty tone. “This is as the Justicar orders. Do not test me.”

Junior was glad that his suit was padded out. It hid his shudder very well. On his first day in Vale, Harfang had taken him to one of the executions ordered by a Justicar. The victim – a middle-aged woman, mascara caked to her eye-lashes and cascading down her cheeks – had died a very painful, prolonged death.

“Understood,” Junior said grimly. “The head of the Arcturus is in agreement.”

“The head of the Moonflower is as well,” Specter said.

“Then you are dismissed. A good night to everyone,” Dimitry said.

Myosotis and Specter grabbed their weapons, then left the room. Topaz soon followed them.

 

* * *

 

 Together, the Justicar and gang boss walked past painting-lined hallways to the stairway. Junior didn’t trust elevators: they were too easy to rig to collapse. 

“That went better than I expected,” Junior said once outside. He held out his arm, but Dimitry waved him away and walked forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Old age catching up, chief?”

“I couldn’t run forever,” Dimitry said with a grin. In the parking lot's, the streetlamps' pale blue glare turned the Justicar into a wraith dragged from Hell. “Not from Myosotis’s unusual wrath.”

Junior took the hint. As a Justicar, Dimitry would never advise him to do anything in another gang’s territories. The Justicar had associated himself with the Arcturus willingly, but needed to appear neutral. But Junior was the head of his own organization, and he needed to take care of his men.

“I would be too. 7.5% drop in profits?” Junior tapped Dimitry on the wrist. “Sounds like every time you pay my bar a visit. Pay for your drinks next time.” 

“When I’m sober enough,” Dimitry grumbled. “I believe I delivered last week’s cut out of my pay.”

“You’re lucky I need you so much. Otherwise, I’d Xiao Long you.”

Dimitry laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it nowadays?”

“Hey, always helpful to have a human fireball on hand.”

 _Yeah, a human fireball with great legs and a chest like–_

The Justicar had noticed Junior's little trip into fantasy land. His lips tightened.

A black sedan pulled up to the curb. Melanie was behind the wheel, and her sister in the shotgun seat. The car itself was one of the latest models from Atlas: the doors were three-inches thick, the windows were bulletproof glass, and the underside of the car was so heavily armored that it would tank driving over a mine. A gift from Aine. 

Miltia exited the sedan and held the passenger door open. “Everything okay, boss?” the red-wine girl asked.

“Eh, had better.” Junior seated himself at the far window. Dimitry sat behind the driver seat. “To the Arcardians for me. The chief will have the usual.” He beckoned to the Justicar. "It seems like we'll have to talk."

 

* * *

 

Vale had been experiencing an unusual quiet: there were no riots rocking city center tonight, nor were there Grimm sighting sirens wailing in the thin fall air. A hint of frost trickled in through car’s vents. At Junior’s request, Melanie turned up the heat. As was custom, the twins closed the divider between the passenger’s and the driver’s side. The divider was sturdy, and would block out any sound.

For a few moments, the car was silent, but for the skidding of wheels on the pitted tarmac below.

Junior hesitated. He didn’t want to say this. He wasn’t a parent himself, but through basic human decency, he could understand how painful it had to be to watch a loved one waste away. But with the recent ruling, the Arcturus would be hurting for cash. Aigis Berylov had long since been declared brain-dead.

 _You’re just delaying the inevitable,_ he told himself. _Get on with it. You’re a gang boss. You’re doing what’s best for your men_.

( _But not Yang_ , his subconscious whispered, _Dimitry is free to take it out on her. You’re drawing borders. Better be on the right side._ )

Junior cleared his throat.

“I presume I won’t like our conversation.” Dimitry’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Is it about your new paramour?”

The bearded bartender coughed. “Look, the Malachite twins aren’t exactly new.”

“You know I didn’t mean the Malachites.”

 _I am so sorry, Blondie, but I might be throwing you under the bus._

“Dimitry… you know, the hospitals are running out of supplies.” Junior tugged at his tie. It was suddenly very tight around his throat. “Blondie’s father is on the Huntsmen’s payroll, and we should be able to keep our promise. However… you know, Aigis has been… well, she probably won’t ever wake up. The Huntsmen don’t have any reason to keep helping her. Maybe… it’s time to let go?”

Dimitry looked out the tinted windows. He stayed silent.

“I’ll see if we can get a hand,” Junior said. “But… you know how it goes. She’s a Huntress, but her condition, her family – and we really shouldn’t do anything either, we’re already in hot water with the HG-100–“

“I know the rules very well. I helped enforce them,” Dimitry said stiffly.

“I’m just saying. You might want to spend more time with Aigis.” 

“Thank you, Junior, for warning me.” Dimitry rubbed his eyes. Junior was glad that the elder man was not Harfang, who would've immediately erupted into an angry tirade and accusations of treason. With Dimitry, Junior had a fifty/fifty chance of earning a earful, and a 10% chance of accusations of breaking the Thieves' Code. ( _Not like anybody follows that anymore.)_ “Would you mind dropping me off at Vale General?”

Junior checked his watch. 3:30 AM.

“Anything for you, chief.” He rapped on the divider. A window in the sheet of metal slid open, revealing the two twins. “Hey, change of plans. Drop the chief off at Vale General Hospital.”

“On your orders, sir,” Melanie said. “Anything else?”

“No, that should be it. Thanks, you two.”

“We’re expecting some repayment once we reach the Arcadians,” Miltia said, briefly taking her eyes off the road. She winked at Junior.

“You two’ll be the death of me,” Junior sighed, and slid the window shut.

 

* * *

An awkward silence sat between the two criminals.

“We need to promote a new captain soon,” Dimitry said, “to replace Aine. It should be as soon as possible. After tonight’s events, the Moonflower Cartel may try to hustle in.”

 _I’m going to buy him as much vodka as he wants_ , Junior vowed, _for not jumping on the elephant in the room_.

“Any recommendations?” Junior asked. “I haven’t really seen any potential in the club’s men.” _Well, except for Blondie, but hell if I’m telling him that._

“I would say Yang,” Dimitry said, “simply because she is powerful enough to strongarm our competitors into submission. I did watch the match.”

 _I take the offer back_.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Junior said, undoing his tie. “Don’t smile like that – you’re fucking with me. Fine. I can do that too.”

“Hmm. Did you sound like a twenty-six year old girl yesterday?” Dimitry reached out and ruffled Junior’s hair. He wasn’t very successful: Junior’s hair was cropped short enough to only poke Dimitry. “You’re spending far too much time with Harfang.”

“Hey, I’m no Harfang. I’ve got good friends in my corner, and I intend to keep it that way,” Junior said.

Dimitry’s smile quickly fell. “Specter will probably try to coax Harfang over. I doubt she will succeed. She is rather… independent, for his tastes.”

“Now I’m wondering if we should just marry people together and solve our problems that way. Hey, kings and queens did it. Why not criminals?”

The Justicar shuddered and crossed himself. “God save us all. Harfang and Specter, in unholy matrimony.”

“Great, now I’m gonna hafta join you in alcoholism. I'm never gonna wipe that outta my mind.” Junior set his undone tie in his lap. “Anyways, about Aine. Should we shuffle some of our current captains around? Shad’s wife is in politics here, but he has the know-how to deal with the Desert Eagles. They deal mainly in benzoates and psychedelics?”

“They might have shifted course since I ruled them,” Dimitry said. “Now that the CCT is up, I will verify for you.”

“Can you check if they’re still loyal?” Junior asked. “Yeah, yeah, I know, a thief’s home is home to his fellow thieves, but with the White Fang around, the old rules are dying. You saw that tonight. What the HG-108 did should have gotten the lot of them killed.”

“I was tempted,” Dimitry admitted, “but I was not willing to start a war. I don’t know, Junior. We may not be able to stay neutral anymore. Turning that stag Faunus – Onyx, I believe – over to the police did gain us some traction.”

“But it’ll set the White Fang further against us," the bearded bartender said, continuing the line of thought. "They got Aine. Who’s going to be next?” Junior sighed and rested his head against the window. He thought of Yang’s powerful body, pinning the stag Faunus down on the bar top. Even if it was through the CC cameras, he could see the fire radiating from her fists. God, the woman could burn him to death and he would still be down on his knees, wondering what he had done to deserve h–

“Did you mean to say that out loud?” Dimitry asked.

 

Junior pressed his cheeks against the window to cool them down.

“Well, you got your wish,” Junior mumbled. “You’re rubbing off on me. I don’t know when to stop talking anymore.”

The Justicar laughed, not even bothering to muffle his laughter behind his hand.

“I should have recorded that,” he said, wiping away tears, “perhaps played it at your wedding–“

Junior groaned and shoved the other man. “It’s nothing serious–“

“Ah, so a schoolgirl crush instead.”

“Will you quit it?” Junior gestured wildly, aware that the shielding was soundproof. “The Malachites are on the other side!”

Dimitry placed a finger on the barrier. “Unless I tap this to inform them of this confession, they won’t hear. You know the rules, Junior. You know the unrest a Huntress of all people will cause. God forbid you promote her – you will lose good, hardworking men who will not stand for the upset of tradition.”

The bearded bartender ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “You don’t need to remind me, Dimitry. I know it’s a horrible idea to date your employees. Leaves you wide open for an assassin’s bullet.” He straightened and shook a finger at the Justicar. “By the way. Any business you want to run goes by me. I don’t want to worry about one of my men offing somebody I need.”

“I will never undermine your lead.”

“Good,” Junior said, but he did not feel reassured. “Because she’s our best bet against the White Fang and the Grimm. We need her.”

"Of course." The Justicar looked down. “I’m worried about _you,_ Junior. I've known you for a decade, and this is the– I doubt she is a mole, not with her history. But Huntresses… they never settle down. It’s part of their job.”

“Yang could be different,” Junior argued. “No normal Huntress would join a gang.”

Dimitry looked out the window. “Someday, whatever called Xiao Long into that trade will call her back. You will constantly chase after her, hungry for something you can never have, like a snake swallowing its own tail, or a moth called to a flame. Be careful that it does not consume you.”

“Are you projecting?” Junior asked, desperate to lighten the tone. “Because last time I was with Blondie, I just remember a lot of friendly talk. A date, at best, with secondhand flowers.”

“That little speech earlier did not sound like dating.” Dimitry raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were a cultist.”

“What – oh, for fuck’s sake, I don’t worship the fucking ground she walks.”

“Whatever you say, Junior.” Dimitry soon grew sober. “You are an adult. I trust you will do what’s best.”

Melanie suddenly opened up the barrier’s window. “The cops set up a cordon. We’re gonna have to take a detour, boss. ETA, twenty minutes, and we’re going silent.”

The window slid closed, ushering in a tension that thickened the air.

 

* * *

 

The buildings in this part of Vale were packed together: dark, gap-toothed monstrosities that loomed over the black sedan like vultures circling a carcass. Once upon a time, the Melnic District had been an up-and-coming commune, filled with soaring skyscrapers that housed students of the local university, a nightlife that only slept when the sun was high in the sky, and a roaring trade in the hipster and kitsch.

That was before the Beacon fell.

The Huntsmen had killed the Gryphons, but the massive corpses still had toppled buildings while falling from the sky. The resulting collapse killed hundreds. The skyscrapers stood empty, their jagged steel maws open to the Grimm-filled skies. Junior had seen Beacon’s headmistress attempting to repair one of the many abandoned storefronts, but to no avail. The pale-haired woman looked absolutely drained as she levitated the chunks of marble.

 _No wonder Blondie gave up on that life_ , Junior thought. _It sounds depressing, and I’m a guy who deals with corrupt politicians on a daily basis! Speaking of which, none of the old crowd has swung by the bar… Guessing they don’t need help for re-electi–_

The car suddenly swung, throwing Junior against the driver’s seat. Only his seatbelt prevented him from catapulting into the barrier.

Outside, something popped.

Melanie barely cracked open the barrier. “We’re taking fire! We’re getting out of the district!”

Dimitry’s eyes were glued to the windows, scanning his side for assailants. Junior did the same on his side.

“It’s not White Fang,” the bearded bartender said. “They’re up in the storefronts or something!”

“I’ve got something!” Dimitry took out his Scroll and took a picture. He laid back against the seat. “For – Junior, our assailants are wearing _suits_.”

Junior paled. Someone from the Brotherhood of Black was shooting at them.

This was a targeted hit.

The glass near Dimitry’s head suddenly spiderwebbed, as a bullet struck true. Caught by the three-inches of bulletproof glass, Junior could clearly see the grooves along the bullet’s tip. 

“Dust bullets. Like we needed any more help – hey, I thought the sale of these things was limited to the Hunt!” Junior opened up the window. “Get a call out. We need two more cars as a distraction. We’ve got a broken window on the back passenger side.”

“I got it, boss. Close this! We can’t risk you getting hurt!” Melanie slammed the window shut.

Within minutes, two other black sedans with the same license plate as their car came streaking up the road. They flanked Junior’s sedan as they roared down the dead streets and silent crossroads. The fire continued from all directions.

“They’ve probably got turrets,” Dimitry complained. “The men must have just been there to send a message.”

“Then we’ve got to separate.” Through the window, Junior saw the end of the Melnic district, beckoning like a lamp to a moth. “We’re almost home clear!” he yelled, loud enough to breach the barrier. “Take the long route to the hospital! They won’t attack there!”

“ _Got it!_ ” Miltia said, slightly muffled.

Fifteen meters – ten – eight – five – four, one more red light and they were out – three –

“Disengaging!” Melanie cried.

The three sedans wove in between each other, trying to confuse any possible pursuers, and drove off in different directions. Although Junior wasn’t happy about it, Miltia would probably take the downtown Vale route. At least that way, any assailants would have to deal with the police blockades.

 

 

“Here, chief?” Miltia asked twenty minutes later.

Dimitry looked up at the windows of Vale General Hospital. Even in the wan darkness of AM, lights still blared from every corner of the building.

“Yes, here is good.” He opened the door. “Thank you, Ms. Malachite.”

Junior frowned. “You don’t have to come into work tomorrow if you don’t feel like it.”

“You’ll see me at the regular time. Goodnight, boss. Misses Malachites.” Dimitry touched his chest, bowed his head, then exited the car. Junior watched until the hospital’s spotlights swallowed the black-suited figure, reducing Dimitry to a mere shadow on the sidewalk.

Junior closed the door. “I’ve had a long night, girls. Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

Home, for a gang boss, depended on where the police were searching that night. That morning, Junior had chosen the Arcadians: a squat mansion in a gated community, situated in the richest district of Vale. It was here that celebrities lived, secure behind their iron bars. Although the district was covered in cameras, as a well-known nightclub owner, Junior was right at home. There was no danger in being caught here tonight. For all the police knew, Junior had been late in closing up the Calisto.

He tramped his way into the home.

What a night. There were traitors all around him – the HG-108, any gang who sided with the White Fang, possibly the Brotherhood of Black – Junior had a sickening feeling that whoever hired the Brotherhood of Black was a politician. It would be just like them. Only the best, to get rid of the best. 

He sent out an order on the Scroll kept in the bedside table:

> _check in on alliances. Possible Brotherhood of Black attack. Allied with White Fang?_

Junior clicked off his Scroll and went to brush his teeth.

 _Should be safe in my own bedroom,_ he thought, staring at the wearied man in the mirror. Melanie and Miltia had some training as huntresses, and even more as assassins. Combined with a network of security cameras and alarms, he could sleep safely. _Theoretically.What I wouldn’t do for Blondie here._

Junior finished cleaning up for the night – or morning, judging by the pale azure skies. He shucked off his vest and eyed the enormous bed that dominated the room. Long scarlet sheets– Vacuoan cotton, 400 thread count – swept off of the mattress and tumbled onto the floor. He could almost see the former Huntress pushing him onto the bed and pinning him down like the stag Faunus. _Okay. In many more ways than one._

Melanie came into the bedroom, shedding the layers of her dress as she went.

“Anything I can do for you tonight, boss?” She batted her eyelashes. 

Miltia came in, already undressed. Normally, Junior would have been more appreciative of her smooth thighs and perky tits, but he couldn’t shake the image of a muscled blonde brawler who could burn him to ashes.

“I think our heroic rescue deserves some reward,” Miltia said, closing the curtains. “Would you agree, dear sister?”

“Oh yes, Miltia.”

They converged on him: light hands stripped away his slacks, while Melanie unbuttoned his shirt. Junior helped where he could – undoing the laces of Melanie’s boots when he could reach, pressing kisses to Miltia’s collarbones when she slid her fingers along his cock…

His heart just wasn’t in it to be pampered.

“You know what, girls? You’re right. You deserve a reward.” He set Melanie on the bed, and made to part her legs. “May I?”

“Such a gentleman,” Miltia giggled. “It’s almost like you want to impress someone, Junior.”

_Sure do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Yang. If there was only somebody who loved you among the Arcturus. 
> 
> Moved the Solar Flare chapter back a little, but it's coming!


End file.
